


Albion

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Magic, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city of Camelot, capital of Camelot, is full of unrest. The emperor has rules with an iron hand, there has been much blood spilt, magicians are persecuted and burnt. Merlin is running for his life one day when he finds aid in the oddest of places. Or possibly aid. He's not quite sure. What follows is a battle for the city, his people, himself, and all that he loves. </p><p>Or, the fic where Camelot's a steampunkish city, Merlin's pretty much in the same position as canon, and there are lost princes and myths and stories and a fair bit of tinkering. And Arthur builds stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: violence, death (no main characters), the death of a child off screen.
> 
> I wrote prologues and epilogues :) personally I usually skip 'em in books, because they're nothing to do with the story, or they're superfluous, extra information (IMO), so even if I write them it's usually just little tags as epilogues. But I wrote them. Yay. totally pertinent author's note, this is.
> 
> acutally I'm not sure I really understand what prologues and epilogues are meant to do. They're weird.

Albion was once green and thriving, peopled by peaceful tribe, treaties and accords kept in place by the binding and trust of magic. Deep in the earth it moved, seeping through the landscape, the people, the animals, up into the sky and filling the world. A promise meant something. But then, in Camelot, peopled by the most powerful of magicians, a man was born without any of the earth’s gift. Not a single thread of magic traced it’s way through him. He was born into leadership, but it was denied him, because he could make no treaties, keep no accords. 

 

Vortigern grew up well, was given much love, and became a wise and respected man within the tribe. He was learned, has great physical strength, and knew how to cook wonderful things. He was not ill-used, nor was his life hard, but he had a secret. A small, bitter, twisted secret. He had been destined to rule, and that had been taken from him. Quietly, he read and spoke to everyone and gathered other people without the gifts of the earth around him. 

 

Camelot was peaceful. All of Albion was peaceful. The land didn’t know war. When Vortigern rose up, it was violent, merciless, remorseless, and they took power without much resistance. Protection spells were used, but magic was not created or used for attack and defence. Magic users fell one by one, put to death or put into prisons or chained under rock. Vortigern took power and set up a cast system of guilds, forcing everyone into professions that had strict rules and guides, keeping them busy and quiet. 

 

He called himself emperor, and took the land for himself. 

 

That is the tale told by the Old Religion, of the birth of Albion. History names Vortigern as the first emperor of Camelot, and there are texts that suggest magic was more widespread before his rule, but the idyllic utopia described finds no basis in fact. In school, children learn little of the land before Vortigern, because there is little to learn. 

 

There was a newspaper, under the Emperor Brutus of Britain, leader of the army, High Chancelor of Ablion’s joint-court. In the archives, there are copies of articles that claim texts and scrolls laying out history before the empire, were burnt. Confiscated and destroyed as damaging propaganda. At the university in Camelot, capital of Camelot, there are academics who write on pre-empiric history. It is widely agreed, between them, that the tribal structure suggested by religion did exist, but long before the empire. 

 

What was there is disputed. There is, according to archeological findings, evidence of a prosperous, capitalist democracy. There are coins, writings that suggest a barter and then capital-based system. According to historians the archeological findings only cover a tiny part of the country, a mere handful of villages. They maintain that the society was communal, and relied on networks of communities working together, sharing of resources, and a top level of people who ran the bureaucracy and maintained an army. There is also a critical historical position that suggests that magic was, in fact, the mainstay of the society in place before the empire. That the power magic gave a man was measured and the most powerful were the leaders, the top level.  There are other theories, and literary scholars of the period had certain views about magic that the university veiled and then ignored. 

 

The joint-court of Albion was abolished under the Empress Elizabeth, and the tight gripped control on the Empire of Camelot got tighter. Exploration into Albion was encouraged by the royal family, the army often following in the wake of discovery, taking more land for Camelot. The tentative peace between Escetir and Camelot was broken. A treaty between Camelot and Caerleon took both to sea and Camelot’s borders expanded to touch the sea. 

 

Both Caerleon and Camelot loosened their laws on magic, so far as to allow themselves use of magicians to further their explorations. Magicians were attached to the royal family of Camelot. By the end of the century, however, the negotiation between royal house and magicians had broken down. The magicians revolted, and were put to death, burnt on a pyre in Oxford. 

 

Under Elizabeth learning and education were encouraged, and everyone under the age of eight was expected to be at the least taught their letters. Magic users were allowed to live in the cities and towns, so long as no magic was practiced. After the royal magicians were burnt, however, Elizabeth issued a decree that all magic users must leave Camelot. If found, they would be put to death on the pyres.

 

The pyres burnt for sixty years, before public, bodily punishment gave way to a penal system.  The burning of magicians continued to haunt the collective imagination, and was so much written and spoken of that though the punishment was gone, the fear lingered. The pyres were brought back by Emperor Uther, to burn Nimueh after he accused her of killing his wife. 

 

It wasn’t until Empress Morgan that magicians were brought back into the cities, legally. She negotiated to have magicians work with the royal family again, to make her rule stronger. Three magicians agreed, on the understanding that Morgan would set aside a portion of Camelot, capital city, for magic users to practise and live freely. This area became a ghetto under Emperor Anlawd, and his son, Uther, ruled with bloody violence and turned the ghetto into a dangerous place, the poverty unbearable for many. 

 

Alongside the history of magic runs a history of industrialisation. In the name of making magic superfluous, the royal families of Albion all invested heavily in education and research. The universities thrived, and many inventors and theoreticians received patronage for research. In Camelot, under Emperor Henry, towns were built dedicated to a single science or theory or area of research. The smith towns were especially successful, huge smithies were built to create and build the plans that theory and research churned out. 

 

Once machinary had advanced to steam power, under the Empress Victoria, the steel and engineering towns started to grow too, and the glass towns. The effect of the growth of glass and metals was that jewelry and ornament became cheaper and popular. It was fashion, for a while, to wear as much as one could bear the weight of. Often the ornament reflected the machinery being crafted alongside it, cogs and wheels and little devices that sent shards of light glinting, little mechanisms that ran off sunshine to turn wheels and send crystal circling, spreading rainbows. Once jewlery became mechanised, industrialisation entered the home. 

 

The domestication of mechanisms lead to small family businesses selling ideas and inventions to bigger companies, and even the crown. This lead to patenting. Private invention grew, and education of the masses was again focussed on. Private enterprise lead to private business, and the cast system of the guilds broke down. No longer did belonging to one guild put you above another. You could move, the steam trains gave you geographic mobility and the chances of private enterprise gave you social and financial mobility. A gardiner could, through buying and selling and creating, make as much as an smith. 

 

Camelot under Anlawd was in decline, however. Private enterprise was dwindling, as running and owning a business was impeded by strict laws around magic and use, curfews, interrupted business hours. The streets of cities were unsafe, the knights of the royal guard patrolling like clockwork. Instability of private enterprise lead to a growth in communal agreements along friend and family lines, bartering, trust. The big industry towns grew once more. 

By the time Uther took power, Camelot was a conflicted place with a bloody history. Uther did nothing to change that, heaping on carnage and cruelty until the structure of society was creaking. 


	2. Chapter 2

The pavement is wet under his feet, the fog thick and damp and the drizzle making it hang like wet laundry. It obscures him from his pursuers, but it also obscures his path and slows him down. He passes the alley he’s looking for, misses it, and has to take one less familiar. He leaps, grabs the top of the wall at the end, and pulls himself up, already along the wall, up the fire-escape. He can hear heavy footfalls muffled behind him and can see the shapes still after him. They must have a magic user, to track him so easily. He swings onto the bar of the fire-escape, then leaps, reaching, hoping, gripping the next fire-escape and clambering onwards. 

 

He runs across flat rooftops, up slated slants, over the chimneys, through the cogs and metal scraps and machinery that people leave to rust on balconies, on roofs, everywhere. He leaps across gaps, scrambles up drainpipes, ducks and darts and weaves, but still they come on. He slips and topples, catching a window sill. He has two seconds to decide, but the choice is either fall or hope. He swings, presses his feet to the wall, takes a deep breath and propels himself through the window below, his magic informing him that it’s open. He rolls across the fall and scrambles under a table, then waits, silent, still. 

 

A curious face peers at him, appearing slowly and then quickly pulling back before advancing once more, wary but interested, the body attached to the face slowly crouching, strong arms resting on knees. The face grins. 

 

“Hullo,” the man says. 

 

Merlin’s about to answer, but someone bangs on the window frame. 

 

“Please,” Merlin says, snagging the man’s sleeve, “please.”

 

The man goes without answering and Merlin watches his trouser legs. 

 

“Sir, we’ve been chasing a criminal and we have reason to believe he ducked in here,” one of Merlin’s pursuers says. 

 

“Oh,” the man says, “really? In here?”

 

“Have you seen a man, sir?”

 

“I wouldn’t know, would I?” 

 

“Has anyone come in?”

 

“Again, I wouldn’t know.”

 

“Alright sir. Please call us, if you do see someone, we don’t want you being harmed.”

 

“No indeed.”

 

“Damn it, Edwin! He’s not here!”

 

The voices and tramping feet retreat, searching for him elsewhere. Time has passed, now, and they’re not hot on his heels, so the trace his magic leaves in the air after such a large spell is dispersing and can no longer be followed. Merlin crawls out from under the table and stands before his saviour. Who is stood at the large table, arranging an army of tin soldiers on a landscape of papier mache, not paying any heed to Merlin. 

 

“Um,” Merlin says, “Thank you, for not dobbing me in.”

 

He can’t tell this guy what he did, not with his mask torn off somewhere behind him and his face clearly on display. His identity has to be himself. But he readies himself for questions, thinking up answers to all the usual things. 

 

“Oh, you’re still here!” the man says, turning, pleased, “hullo.”

 

“Hello. Thank you, for not telling them I’m here.”

 

“I couldn’t tell them. I don’t know that you are here.”

 

Merlin frowns, but the man’s gone back to his army. He tuts and pulls out one of the soldiers, who only has one leg, carrying it over to the other end of the table where a lamp is directed on a set of delicate tools. Merlin, curious, moves over to watch the man. With sure, skilled fingers, he picks up pieces of pre-cut armour, using small pliers to bend and shape them around the soldier’s thigh and shin, making a new leg. Merlin watches the man solder the metal together with a heat gun, noticing for the first time the detail on the small toy. 

 

It has the insignia of the city guard on the shoulder, the colours of the Pendragons on its breast. The armour is not the generic armour of the tin soldiers in all the shops, it’s the unique bend and gleam of the knights’ armour. It’s not familiar, it’s no one Merlin’s been chased by. He looks at the other soldiers and they’re all the same, all made in the image of a particular knight. Someone royal, by the pips beside the insignia, but not Argravane, not Uther, not Gwenevere or the disgraced Morgana. 

 

“Are you real?” The man asks, turning to Merlin, the soldier now two-legged. 

 

“I am,” Merlin says. 

 

“Then, I am Arthur.”

 

“I’m Merlin.”

 

Arthur nods and gets up, placing the soldier back among his fellows. 

 

“There we go. All fixed. They lose their limbs, in the night, while I sleep. I do it, while I dream. I take their legs and arms and burn them.”

 

Merlin is slightly horrified by that, but Arthur sounds equally horrified by himself, which is probably what makes it sound so awful. After all, they’re just toys. 

 

“But,” Arthur says, plucking up another one, this one whole, “I fix them. They’re going to wage war on Mercia, look.”

 

Arthur points to the edge of the table, where a forest waits. There are mis-shapen creatures, twisted metal, bits of old clock mechanisms, scattered among the trees. 

 

“Those are the Mercian magic users,” Arthur says, gravely, “they must be destroyed.”

 

Merlin winces. 

 

“I think it would be safe for me to leave,” Merlin says, moving across to the window and peering out, seeing no one waiting for him, “thank you for sanctuary.”

 

“Any time. Come back for tea, one day,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin leaps from the sill, across to the opposite building, and climbs back to the street. He has to walk for half an hour before he reaches a train stop that will take him back to his part of the city, and then he has to walk a further half hour to reach Gaius’s little shop, having purposefully run in the other direction. He slips in the back and pulls off his gloves to lock up. There’s a fire still lit, and when he turns, Gaius is there, waiting, eyebrow raised. 

 

“She’s safe,” Merlin says, “just. I took her to Mordred, he’ll get her out of the city.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Hengis saw me.”

 

“Merlin!”

 

“I had my face covered, he didn’t recognise me, I promise. He called the knights, though, and they had Edwin with them. They nearly caught me. We need to work on covering the trace of my magic if I’m going to be using it like that again. Those manacles, the ones Freya was wearing, they stopped any magic. I had to use a lot to get her free.”

 

“I’ve been reading, but I need the book of the dead for more in depth analysis of the spell you want to try. It’s not safe, Merlin. It’s in the book of the dead, I think that tells you enough to know to be cautious.”

 

“Can’t we get hold of that?”

 

“Geoffrey is looking, but there’s only so much he can do without being noticed. You have to be patient. In the meantime, we be careful. I know it’s hard, but we need you to be safe. What use are you to anyone, as ashes?”

 

“I know. It’s just frustrating, Gaius! I have all this power, and I can’t do anything! There have been three burnings a day this last fortnight. The Pendragons are hardly softening, and since Morgana betrayed Uther the city is safe for noone, whether magic or no. I need to do what I can.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m going to bed.”

 

For some reason, Merlin tells Gaius nothing of the strange man with the soldiers and the tin. He retreats to the cupboard Gaius put a bed into for him to sleep in and curls up under his thin blankets, glad to be behind the stove pipe, glad of that warmth. 

 

Merlin works hard for Gaius, making tinctures and gathering ingredients, helping him with deliveries and collections. He works even harder, after his run in. He knows that Gaius worries, and showing his commitment to Gaius’s business seems to help soothe the old man. Merlin’s sat behind the counter making up a solution to grease the joints of a mechanical prosthesis, while Gaius helps a young woman find the right supplements to help the child inside her, when the door opens and a tall knight walks in, in full armour, insignias splashed loud across his cloak. Gaius hurries the woman out and Merlin moves away from his work.

 

“I’m looking for Merlin Emrys,” the knight tells them.

 

Merlin and Gaius exchange worried looks. If someone has discovered Merlin’s magic, he’s done for. If it’s just questioning about an escape it’s better, but still pretty dire. They stand in stillness until the knight turns to Gaius and asks if he is Merlin Emrys. Merlin steps forward.

 

“No, I am,” he says. 

 

Gaius coughs, hand snapping out to grip Merlin’s arm, fingers biting into Merlin’s muscle.

 

“You must come with me,” the knight says, and goes to hold open the door. 

 

Merlin puts his hand over Gaius’s. He could escape, but that would take magic and they might not know about him yet. He could run, but that would just suggest his guilt. Better to comply, for now. He squeezes Gaius’s hand. 

 

“I’ll be fine,” he promises.

 

“Whatever it takes,” Gaius whispers, fierce, grip tightening before releasing Merlin to follow the knight into the street.

 

Merlin turns to wave to Gaius, perhaps for the last time, drinking in his terrified face, holding on to it. The knight doesn’t cuff him, so it’s probably not the magic thing. He just leads Merlin through a few alleys. Merlin’s just beginning to get frustrated with being led in circles when the knight stops and gestures. Merlin looks around him and sees a shiny red machine, unfamiliar but gleaming, and Arthur leaning against it. Arthur, from the strange room. Merlin’s heart sinks. It was a trap, after all. 

 

“I found him, sir,” the knight says. 

 

“Ah! Good man, Leon. Can you stick around?” Arthur says, smiling, waving to Merlin. 

 

“No, sir. I’m supposed to be on patrol,” the knight says, a note of censure in his voice.

 

“You could skip it, I’m sure.”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Very well, very well. Hello, Merlin! I found you.”

 

The knight leaves them, cloak billowing, and Merlin moves across the space, wary. If he’s been left to Arthur it means Arthur’s a warrior, and a bloody good one, from the deference the knights show him. Merlin’s ready. 

 

“What am I in trouble for?” Merlin asks. 

 

“Trouble? Are you? I can help, I have lots of gold. And I’m good at fixing things, maybe I can fix that?”

 

“What?”

 

“This is my automobile,” Arthur says, indicating the machine behind him, “I built it. The engine runs on steam, like the trains, but then I made it all smaller. It’s like a carriage, like a train, but I made it pretty. See? It’s red.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Come on, we’ll go for a drive.”

 

Merlin gets into the seat Arthur indicates. It’s comfy, like an arm-chair cushion. Merlin assumes he’s going to be questioned or taken to jail or taken to the witch finder, so he keeps quiet. Arthur climbs in beside him and turns a handle. 

 

“This makes heat, which makes the water in the pipes boil. It takes a minute to warm up, but then she works remarkably well,” Arthur says, beaming. 

 

The machine trundles forward, puffing steam from a pipe in the back. They move at a walking pace and then there’s a clanking noise, and more steam billows, and then they jolt forwards and Arthur cheers as they start to go at a jog, then a sprint. Soon they’re barrelling through the streets, almost mowing down the people walking, surrounded by clouds of steam. Arthur laughs wildly and takes them up the rickety wall-path and out of the city. The machine runs for twenty minute over the green hills before puffing to a stop with a worrisome clunk. 

 

“Oh dear,” Arthur says, “she does this sometimes. Everything’s a bit loose, so it all topples about when I go too fast.”

 

He hops out and starts opening hatches and doors, revealing wire and cogs and a steaming tank. Merlin gets out to watch, curious again, and it’s like being in the room with the soldiers all over again. Arthur’s hands move over the insides of the machine, checking fans and belts and water levels, tightening screws and rivets and metal hooks and levers.

 

“The water’s the problem,” Arthur says, “I can’t find a way to make it replenish, and once it runs out the tank shifts and everything jiggles and then- well. Here we are. If I could somehow make the steam back into water, that would be the way. It would stop it being so hard to see anything as we go, too. Ah well. I shall work on it. Are you hungry? I brought a picnic.”

 

Merlin gapes at Arthur as he spreads a blanket on the side of the track and starts setting out sandwiches, crockery, cutlery. There’s also a large jar of pickled eggs, a pot of honey, all sorts of delicacies. Merlin frowns.

 

“Am I not being taken to prison?” Merlin asks. 

 

“What?” Arthur says, blinking gormlessly at him. 

 

“I was arrested, to go on a picnic?” Merlin says, confused. 

 

“Is that the trouble you’re in? You were arrested? Oh dear, I can’t fix that. I can’t, I really can’t. I try so often… I still… there’s still the fires, though.”

 

“You had me arrested!” Merlin says, getting angry now. 

 

“No I did not. I can’t have you arrested, I’m not a knight.”

 

“You’re not?”

 

“No. I told you, I’m Arthur.”

 

“But… but… the knights. They’re nice to you! And one came into my shop to arrest me and took me to you!”

 

“Leon arrested you?  _ Leon _ arrested you? Why on earth did he do that, I wonder?”

 

“He arrested me and took me to you!”

 

“I can’t think why he arrested you. Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Leon does.”

 

“He’s a knight! Arresting people is all they do!”

 

“I suppose. But Leon’s nice.”

 

“Yes, about that, why are the knights nice to you? They call you sir!”

 

“I don’t know. Aren’t they nice to everyone?”

 

“No. Not in the least. Usually they’re too busy burning and arresting and chasing.”

 

“Do they do those things to you?”

 

“You know they do!” Merlin says, tearing at his hair in frustration, “I was hiding from them in your room.”

 

“Was it you they were chasing?”

 

“Of course it bloody was, you idiot.”

 

“Oh. I didn’t know that. I didn’t have you arrested, though, Leon just found you for me. He found me in the streets and I’m not meant to be there, so he found you for me so I’d stop annoying the people.”

 

“What?”

 

“Shall we have lunch now we’ve cleared that up? Now that you know you’re not arrested?”

 

“No, I think you should take me back to the city so I can reassure Gaius that I haven’t been arrested, you prat!”

 

“Oh. I can’t take you back, Tilly needs water.”

 

“What are we going to do?”

 

“Wait. Usually someone shows up, when I get stuck places.”

 

“Someone?”

 

“Yes. Isn’t that the way it works for you?”

 

“No.”

 

Merlin sits on the picnic blanket, too confused and lost to do anything else. Arthur beams and him and prepares him a plate of food. Merlin eats it, listening to Arthur telling him about ‘Tilly the automobile’, thinking through the idea of recycling the water, turning the steam back, how he could do that. 

 

“I love pickled eggs,” Arthur says, when they’re both done eating. 

 

Merlin’s lying on his back, looking up at the blue sky. Despite the weirdness, despite being worried about Gaius, despite being incredibly confused, it’s almost nice to lie here, in the sunshine. He misses Ealdor with its wide open skies when he’s stuck in the city, and this is similar to it. Countryside, farm-land. He can smell the manure they use on the fields, familiar and disgusting, a nostalgic pang of home. 

 

“I was born in country like this,” Merlin murmurs.

 

“Are you a farmer?” Arthur asks, excitement shivering through the words, “I haven’t met a farmer before. What’s it like?”

 

“It’s hard work, for not a lot. I’m not a farmer, my father was. My mother has a small piece of land and does work on the big farm close by, but really she’s a gardener. She has green fingers, can make anything grow. Anything at all.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“She’s how I know Gaius, how I got my job. She’s always sold him the herbs and things he needs, helped him start his own garden, everything. He owed her, so I got the position. His apprentice. The shop will be mine, one day.”

 

“That’s nice. I don’t think I have a shop like that, I don’t have a job. I just make my soldiers and my engines and birds.”

 

“Birds?”

 

“Yes. I make them for the little boy who comes to see me, sometimes. I make them so he can put a bit of water from the sink in, and then there’s a friction panel that heats it and it can fly. They take a while, like Tilly, to get going. We put them on the table and by the time the boy leaves the birds can follow him. He brings me books and things to copy from, so I know the different bird kinds.”

 

Merlin wonders who this strange man is, wonders why he isn’t more afraid, but before he can question it too much a carriage with the city insignia appears on the horizon, coming from the direction of Camelot.

 

“Ah,” Arthur says, “here’s our rescue. I hope it is Leon and not one of the others.”

 

It’s not Leon. It’s Edwin Muirden, who waves an impatient hand, filling Tilly’s tank with a flick of magic that Merlin feels, and then whips his horses and gallops away without a word. Arthur just gets into his seat and drives them back, seemingly unfazed by having one of the city’s official magic users, one of only three, personally employed and hand picked by Uther Pendragon himself, come to his rescue. 

 

Merlin has a lot of explaining to do to Gaius, and the only reason Gaius doesn’t make more of a fuss is that he’s so glad that Merlin is alright and not arrested. He still scowls about Merlin having kept Arthur from him and scowls even harder the more Merlin tells of the strange man, but he gives Merlin supper that night and promises to still go to Geoffrey tomorrow, as promised previously. 

 

Leon starts to show up regularly, just butting into whatever Merlin’s doing and demanding he follows to whatever activity Arthur’s doing on that particular day. It’s Tilly twice, then a gigantic swimming pool that belongs to who knows who, then lunch in an underground tunnel on a ‘quest’ for a ‘monster’ that turns out to be a stone statue that’s been down there centuries. Another time Arthur takes him to a museum, a small cramped room full of strange objects, mostly made of wood. Puppets and dolls and furniture all shoved in together with huge, ornately carved doors that take up whole walls. Then he takes Merlin to the river, and they dive under the dam to explore the intricate mechanisms that control the water flow for the city. 

 

Merlin tries saying no, once. Sir Leon just stands, intimidating everyone around them, big and bulky and awful, until Merlin gives in. Leon’s actually not too bad, for a knight. He’s not unkind to Merlin, the way the others always are, not unkind  _ per-say _ , he just demands Merlin acquiesce to everything Arthur wishes. Merlin still doesn’t know why the knights, and it isn’t just Leon, it’s all the knights they meet, are so deferential to Arthur. 

 

“Why did Sir Anthony not arrest you back there?” Merlin asks, one day, when Arthur’s dragged him into a bakery and stolen sweet cakes and been caught and let free.

 

“Oh, they don’t arrest people for taking sweet things,” Arthur says, “they’re especially forgiving if it’s honey cake.”

 

“That’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

 

“Mm,” Arthur says, licking his fingers, a huge smile on his sticky face.

 

Merlin sits on the bank of the river where they’ve ended up and takes one of the cakes from the box between him and Arthur. He might as well make the most of Arthur’s spoils. 

 

“Are you related to the Pendragons?” Merlin asks, that being the only explanation he can think of.

 

“I wouldn’t know.”

 

“You always answer questions about yourself that way. Why?”

 

“Because it’s true, I wouldn’t know. I have many histories, as far as I remember. I was born to a poor woman, and to one with magic, and to one with a family of eighteen children, and one who had no one but me. I’ve been born a thousand times and lived a thousand lives.”

 

“Are you magic?” Merlin asks, slightly enchanted by the way Arthur speaks of such things.

 

“No,” Arthur scoffs, “I am most certainly not. I am weak, in the head. I cannot tell the real from the imagined. For example, I once met a dragon. He was wonderful, telling me all sorts of stories. I may have believed I was the emperor’s son at one point, I forget.”

 

“Oh.”

 

That explains a little about Arthur, but nothing about the freedom and power he has within the city. Merlin wants to keep questioning it, but Arthur seems to honestly have no idea. He doesn’t seem to realise that he’s treated differently. When Merlin points out a few inconsistencies Arthur shrugs them off, seemingly un-interested in working out the mystery. So Merlin eats another cake and lies on his back, enjoying the sunshine.

 

“We’ve had a lot of good weather, recently,” Arthur says, lying beside Merlin, shoving the cake box (empty) away, “No clouds, today. No fog. Not since the night I met you.”

 

“The night I fell into your window escaping the law, you mean,” Merlin says. 

 

“Don’t speak of such things freely,” Arthur says, sharply, turning a stern face to Merlin. 

 

Merlin starts, surprised, but Arthur’s face crinkles up, suddenly. 

 

“I…” Arthur starts, sounding confused, “I was afraid, for a moment. I thought someone would hear and… I do not know. I was afraid for you. I do not wish you to be hurt.”

 

“I don’t wish to be hurt,” Merlin admits, smiling.

 

“We should go to my rooms. It is safe there. I have been out too often.”

 

Arthur gets up and strides away, not checking that Merlin is following him. Merlin gathers their rubbish and jogs to catch up, trying to make light conversation. Arthur doesn’t respond, just marches them through Camelot’s streets, avoiding the guard and the knights. He’s good at it, too. He knows the streets, knows the patterns the guards walk. Merlin can tell, because he knows, too. Arthur usually wanders around as if uncaring of being seen or noticed, but today he moves as if to be noticed is a matter of life and death. He shoves Merlin out of the way of people more than once, watching them with mistrusting eyes, as if they’re spies. Merlin doesn’t speak until they reach Arthur’s rooms. Arthur stops and Merlin stumbles into his back. 

 

“Come up the way you did last time,” Arthur says, “not in the front.”

 

“Why?” Merlin asks. 

 

“I do not know. It may simply be a symptom of my weakness, I can never tell. Real danger or paranoia. It would make me feel better, though. Make me feel as if you were safe.”

 

Merlin nods and goes to clamber up the fire escape. He’s much clumsier today, not using his magic to ease handholds and footholds, not so confident without the safety net that is the freedom to use his magic. He makes it, though, and climbs through the window that’s been left open. He hides under the table when he hears two sets of feet on the stairs, not just Arthur’s. Perhaps Arthur was right, after all, and there is danger. 

 

“I am just going to stay in for a bit, now,” Arthur is saying as he walks into the room. 

 

His voice is trance-like, dazed, as if he’s dreaming. Merlin peers at the doorway but he can only see to the knee. 

 

“Alright, sir,” an unfamiliar, gruff voice answers. 

 

Arthur closes the door and, to Merlin’s surprise, there’s the snick of a lock clicking into place, and then the thud of bolts. Arthur stares at the door, then turns to the window and wanders over, standing, looking out over the city. Merlin scrambles out from under the table. 

 

“Are we locked in?” He whispers.

 

“Hmm?” Arthur says, “oh, I suppose we are. Don’t worry, I can leave if I want to, I just have to knock and they let me out. Usually. You can speak normally, it’s okay, they just think I’m talking to myself. I have people over often.”

 

“Really?” Merlin asks. 

 

He’s beginning to wonder if he’s got himself tangled up with a complete nutter. He’s still curious, though. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it’s difficult to resist.

 

“No. Maybe. I wouldn’t know.”

 

Arthur goes to sit down and starts cutting metal into shape for more tin-soldier-armour. Merlin watches, pulling up his own chair, leaning his head on his hand. 

 

“What happens to the limbs to remove in your sleep?” Merlin asks. 

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Do you not know where you put them? Don’t you look?”

 

“I’ve searched the room, but never found them. I think I must melt them down.”

 

“Oh, yeah, you mentioned that.”

 

Merlin watches Arthur for a bit longer, then leaves him to it. Arthur doesn’t protests, just watches Merlin. Merlin waves and ducks down. He catches a last glimpse of Arthur from the ground, and Arthur looks wretchedly miserable, for a moment, and Merlin finds himself wishing he could save Arthur. He doesn’t know from what, though. Arthur has more freedom than he, more wealth, more protection, more everything. 

 

Arthur doesn’t have Leon fetch him for a whole week, and Merlin almost goes to Arthur’s rooms to make sure he’s okay, but Gaius talks him out of it. Leon turns up on Sunday and escorts Merlin to the bottom of the fire escape and waits expectantly. Arthur greets him from a table cleared of armies and landscape, showing instead a huge sheet of paper with thin lines. Merlin takes a closer look and recognises a map of Albion. 

 

“Are you drawing this?” Merlin asks, noticing the measuring tools, the surveying machine, the pencils and erasers spread around Arthur’s elbows. 

 

“I am. I do not know… the place?”

 

“It’s the kingdom,” Merlin says, “this is Camelot.”

 

Arthur looks down and beams, pencilling in the name carefully. He has a few names, but there are big gaps. Merlin fills in what he can of what Arthur’s drawn. 

 

“This is Ealdor, just about… here. Just over the border. It’s where I was born,” Merlin says, when they’ve filled in as many towns and cities as they can. 

 

“Here?” Arthur asks, making a mark, “I won’t name it, just in case. One of my stories… just in case.”

 

“Thank you. My mother still lives there.”

 

“Yes, she is a farmer. She grows herbs.”

 

“She does,” he agrees. 

 

Arthur looks pleased with himself. Merlin spends a pleasant afternoon filling in the map with Arthur, and three more afternoons after that. Then there’s another space where he isn’t sent for, and Gaius finds the book of the dead. He bursts into the back room one evening, wide eyed, panting for breath. 

 

“Gaius?” Merlin asks, rising from the fire where he’s heating the friction pads for the dish-washing-machine. 

 

“Hush, come through to the study and do something,” Gaius says, twiddling his fingers. 

 

Merlin nods. He fits the piece of machine back into it’s place and sets the whole thing working, then dries his hands and puts the grate before the fire, retreating to the study. He mutters as he goes, pacing, weaving spells into wards, setting up a warning system, masking it all. It’s not powerful magic, it won’t leave a trace he can’t mask, but it’s powerful enough that he has to use words. He’s never a hundred percent certain of when he is and is not leaving traces, so he tries to use his power as little as possible. He slips into the office when he’s done. 

 

“You found it,” he says. 

 

Gaius nods and lifts a box onto the desk, carefully lifting off the lid. Inside is a sheet of metal, dull grey, thick, soft-looking. Lead. Merlin pulls gloves out of a draw and passes Gaius a pair, and between them they carefully peel the protection away. Beneath lies a leather cover, etched, old, beautiful. Merlin breaths in. 

 

“The book of the dead,” Gaius says in a whisper.

 

“Shit,” Merlin says. 

 

Gaius gives him an eyebrow, but is quickly diverted by the book. They lift it out and open it to the first page. Merlin’s disappointed by the language. It’s the language of the old religion, but archaic. He can’t read it. 

 

“I can decipher this,” Gaius says, “but it will take time. Are we safe to leave the wards up? The room is lead-lined, it may be enough.”

 

“I will leave them up. If I’m careful, I can ask Mordred to check for traces from them.”

 

“Do so. I want you safe.”

 

Merlin nods and waits for more, but Gaius has his nose in the book and probably won’t emerge for days. Merlin slips out and prepares for his excursion to Mordred’s. 

 

He has to dress himself in dark clothing and mask himself, pulling a woollen balaclava over his mask to be on the safe side. It’s hot, but he left it off last time and lost the mask. He gets the train out to the very edge of the city then switches to a small local line before changing. 

 

Out here no one thinks much of a masked man, there are many magicians who hide themselves and many thieves and many worse than both of those. Merlin quickly boards another train, sits on the roof with the other poor passengers, then rides another, sitting on the engine at the back, this time, enjoying the freedom of the air in his face, even with the steam and clog of coal smoke. 

 

He waits the day out at a small bar that he judges to be more or less the kind of place he would go to if masked, The Rising Sun. He’s been once before. He tries not to frequent the same places like this, but there are only so many iffy looking pubs in the city so he doesn’t worry too much about a little overlap. He sits and drinks a slow pint, watching the regulars wander in and out. He recognises one. 

 

“My mystery friend,” Gwaine says, “Enigma. How are you?”

 

“My name is not Enigma.”

 

“But you never tell me, so I must make do with what I know.”

 

“I’m alright. Darts?”

 

They play for twenty minutes. Merlin enjoys Gwaine. He enjoys the man trying and failing to hustle him, he enjoys his laughter, his friendliness, his lack of judgement. He grabs a table with him when they finish their game and offers to stand a round. Which Gwaine agrees to without preamble or blushes. 

 

“I have heard some gossip that may interest you,” Gwaine says, moustache damp with the froth from his ale.

 

“I like to keep my ear to the ground.”

 

“Yes. So? Interested?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“It concerns the emperor.”

 

Merlin checks the people around them, but no one’s interested in two disreputable people sat in a corner. Merlin pulls out a deck of cards and a handful of coins, just in case, and Gwaine pulls out his own change. They gamble for a few minutes. 

 

“I might be interested,” Merlin admits, sliding a couple of extra coins Gwaine’s way when he wins a hand. 

 

“Word is that Morgana betrayed him after learning he was her father.”

 

“Is that possible?”

 

“More like probable. His second ward, Gwenevere, refused to join Morgana and is now favourite, marked to take over when the time comes. She rules the army, now.”

 

“I had heard that much.”

 

“I have… heard…”

 

Merlin knows that that means Gwaine has been hanging around the palace, bedding the maids. He doesn’t approve, but the information Gwaine gathers on his randy outings is invaluable, so he simply uses slight of hand to make Gwaine’s winnings a little smaller. Gwaine pouts at him.

 

“What did you hear?” Merlin asks. 

 

“It is thought, in certain circles, that Gwen’s refusal was strategic and part of Morgana’s plan.”

 

Merlin frowns. Now that he hadn’t heard. He bulks Gwaine’s pile up a little and Gwaine smiles a lazy grin. 

 

“I have more,” he says, scooping up the pile of coins Merlin just changed the cards to allow him to win. 

 

It’s not many gamblers who cheat to lose, Merlin thinks. 

 

“Switch,” Merlin says, gathering the cards and dealing for Rummy instead of poker.

 

Gwaine nods once, understanding that this change is to allow Merlin to pay him more if his information is good. Merlin fingers a note and flips it briefly in Gwaine’s sight before putting it away again. Merlin checks the people around them again before starting the game.

 

“I have a friend who has been travelling. He came across a woman in a village beyond Camelot’s borders, beyond Albion’s borders. She told him an interesting story.”

 

“It will have to wait,” Merlin says, softly, indicating the man who just walked in. 

 

It’s Edwin Muirden. His face is unmasked, for once, and the scarring is visible. Gwiane glances at him briefly, then gives Merlin’s pocket a regretful, longing look, then sighs and scoops up his coins. 

 

“We’re done,” Gwaine says, “call on me, sometime, Enigma.”

 

“Might just do that.”

 

“Morgana is not the only one with a claim to Uther’s parentage.”

 

Merlin looks up at that, head snapping to Gwaine. Gwaine just waves a hand, already heading off. Merlin pockets the little left of his change and slips out as well. 

 

He walks down the train tracks until an engine steams by, then jumps up onto the empty coupling, riding it out to the city wall. He walks the tangle of alleys under the wall itself, through the street stalls, air thick with rich spice, past the dens that promise lust and passion and oblivion, through the laundry strung up in the poorest quarter and into the small courtyard that marks the beginning of the magic-users ghetto. 

 

It’s easy enough to slide past the guards, most magic-users can. Uther doesn’t mind, so long as no magic is used beyond the ghetto, as long as Edwin can’t tell anyone’s left. Merlin shivers, walking through the streets here. 

 

No one has enough, everyone is starving, everyone is left to sleep under the stars, even those with houses, unable to keep them what with the soldiers coming tearing through whenever any crime is committed, breaking windows, shooting the roofs, causing destruction. There’s no way to earn a living, nothing to do except lose yourself in drug and alcohol or fight for an awful life. The people are fierce and would think nothing of cutting Merlin up for food. He shields himself, letting his power show, for once, to discourage such things. 

 

Mordred is waiting for him, made aware by one of his scouts of Merlin’s arrival. He isn’t pleased to see him, breaking into Merlin’s mind and speaking direct, something he hasn’t done for years. Merlin winces. 

 

*Emrys, you are not expected.*

 

“No, sorry. We found it, though.”

 

Mordred smiles and relaxes, inviting Merlin into the small room he calls home. Merlin sits on a cushion and accepts a mug of tea, brewed with a flick of Mordred’s wrist. Merlin stirs honey in, using his own magic, enjoying the freedom to use it at least a little. 

 

“You want me to check your wards?” Mordred asks. 

 

“Yes.”

  
Mordred nods and holds out a hand, waiting for Merlin to place the herbs he needs in his palm and then crushing them, rubbing the juices into the pulse at his wrists, eyes flickering up into his head, body stilling. Merlin drinks his tea and waits for Mordred to return. 


	3. Chapter 3

“The wards are fine,” Merlin tells Gaius, the next morning, over a breakfast of bacon.

“Good. You should get some rest.”

Merlin yawns in agreement, but he finishes his food, first. He’s been out all night and is very ready for sleep, especially as he has to do the same thing again, soon, to get more from Gwaine.

“I bumped into a friend,” Merlin tells Gaius, “Gwaine.”

“Oh yes?”

“I told Mordred everything. I don’t know… I hate having no connection except Mordred.”

“You trust him, though?”

“Yes.”

“Then we work it how it is, for now. It is how you can help, at least for the moment.”

Merlin nods, but he’s not happy about it. He wants to be the puppet master, not the puppet. He wants to co-ordinate it all, he wants the city to fall, wants Albion to fall. He knows he could do it, if just given the chance. It’s not like he doesn’t have inexhaustible power.

“I can see where those thoughts of yours are going,” Gaius says, “we have spoken of this.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Mustn’t destroy and take over, it would make me a tyrant, that amount of magic would corrupt, blah blah.”

“Merlin.”

“Yes, Gaius, I know. Doesn’t stop it from being frustrating. I mean, it’s at my fingertips to stop all this. To finish it.”

“Yes, and then what, hmm? Will you rule?”

“No.”

“Who will? A power vacuum will do us no more good than Uther. The next power hungry warlord will be no better. And you cannot sit as emperor. You would just be another blood-letting invader. And what of after your death? No. This must happen organically. You know it must.”

“I know.”

“Good. Now, go rest. I promise that you are doing something. The city was worse, before you arrived. If nothing else, your name has given Mordred and his people hope. You are part of something far, far bigger than either of us understand.”

“Fine. Have you found anything in the book, yet? It would make my life easier if I didn’t have to dodge about so much, being able to use my magic would help a lot. I could do my bit without moving from your very nice evening fire.”

“Again, the power you use so carelessly should not be so thoughtlessly invoked!” Gaius snaps, but then he sighs and rubs his face, “It is a large book and I do not know where it may be found. It may not be in there at all, it was only a mention in one old text. Give me time.”

“Time,” Merlin scoffs, “Fine. No, Gaius, I do know. I’m just tired and impatient. Muirden interrupted my meeting with Gwaine and Mordred was bad-tempered to be interrupted himself. I will go sleep my bad mood off.”

“Goodnight,” Gaius says.

Merlin retreats to his cupboard-room and throws himself onto his bed. He’s asleep within minutes. When he wakes, Leon is standing over him, eyes on the wall, waiting. Merlin starts awake and leaps to his feet, tugging his clothes on, feeling his cheeks pink at being found in his under things. He glares at Leon when he’s dressed himself, finding some equilibrium.

“How dare you?” Merlin snaps, aware that he sounds like a startled maiden but not caring.

“You are to come with me,” Leon says, unruffled.

Merlin can see the very faintest of blushes on his face, though, which makes him relax a little. At least he’s not the only one embarrassed. He doesn’t forgive Leon, but he doesn’t mind quite so much.

“This is ridiculous,” Merlin says, “you know that, right?”

Leon inclines his head, neither agreement nor disagreement. He’s the most patient man Merlin has ever met. Merlin shakes his head and huffs, but pulls on his boots and gestures for Leon to lead the way.

They only get halfway in the muddle of alleys Leon always leads them through towards Arthur’s rooms, when Leon stops and ducks into a doorway, Merlin pressed between his muscular back and the bricks. Merlin waits, peering out under Leon’s arm, and they watch as Edwin Muirden stalks towards the emperor’s palaces. Leon breathes out in the first show of any emotion since Merlin’s known him, once Edwin’s out of sight. Then he turns to Merlin, face grave.

“Do you know the way?” Leon asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then I must leave you, I have duties.”

Leon strides away, cloak billowing, following the direction Edwin took, not looking back. For the first time Merlin wonders if Leon is not quite as he seems. If he is disobeying orders to serve Arthur. Merlin frowns after him for quite a while, wondering. He can puzzle nothing out, though, so he continues on his way.

Arthur’s got the table entirely clear, today, and has tea things set out. It looks like he’s about to have a doll’s tea party, down to the details of a wooden soldier, about two foot tall, stood in one of the chairs with a cup set before it, and three empty spaces. Merlin tumbles in through the window and takes it all in, wondering, not for the first time, if Arthur really is just entirely cracked.

“Ah, Merlin, you’ve arrived. Come, join us, we were about to begin without you,” Arthur says, gesturing Merlin into one of the three empty chairs.

“Hi,” Merlin says, sitting, a bit wary, “are these the friends you told me about?”

“What?” Arthur says, bewildered, looking around, “Merlin, no one is here. Unless you count the puppet.”

“Oh. I thought….”

“I’ll introduce you, if anyone ever comes, that way you’ll know if anyone’s here. Phew! For a second I thought perhaps you were weak in the head, too!”

Arthur fills Merlin’s cup with a clear, dark, thick liquid that emanates a deep scent, which Merlin recognises as somehow being similar to coffee. He takes a tentative sip and his eyes widen as the taste hits his tongue.

“What is this?” He asks, stunned, taking another small sip to savour.

“Coffee,” Arthur says, “you said you liked it better than tea, once. Would you prefer tea? I have that, too.”

“This is nothing like the coffee I’ve had before,” Merlin says, sticking his nose into the mug. “The coffee most people have is old, reused grounds mixed with root. Usually one just adds a spoon of fresh to the packet when the taste goes.”

Arthur stares at him, the little crinkle in his brow deepening, and then he laughs.

“You drink that? It sounds awful!” Arthur says, still chuckling to himself, “why don’t you just get more fresh?”

“It costs money. A huge amount of money.”

“It does? I didn’t know. I have gold, though, you can have some for coffee, if you like.”

“I think that would be a bad idea, don’t you? Wait, do you have gold in here?”

“No. It’s… I have…” Arthur frowns.

He quickly brightens and starts in on how good his tea is, and how beautiful the day is. His eyes glaze briefly, as if he’s dreaming, but then he smiles at Merlin.

“Why the empty chairs?” Merlin asks, gesturing, “and the doll?”

“Oh, they’re for later,” Arthur says, vaguely.

“Later?” Merlin asks, inviting more information, but Arthur just shrugs.

“I found a spider in my room this morning,” Arthur says, “I haven’t seen one inside, before.”

“Really? They tend to go everywhere.”

“Nothing alive gets in here. Just me. And you.”

“Huh?”

“No one else, just you,” Arthur says, “and me.”

“What about…” Merlin gestures to the chairs, “…’later’?”

“Oh, that’s different.”

Arthur seems to know nothing more, so Merlin drops it. He concentrates, instead, on enjoying his coffee. He only drinks half before he starts to feel a bit dizzy, not used to the sudden, strong hit of caffeine.

“You don’t want more?” Arthur asks.

“No, thank you. It’s a bit… strong,” Merlin says.

Arthur nods for a while, then gets up and finds a flask somewhere.

“Uh, hang on,” Merlin says, as Arthur starts to fill it up with coffee from the pot. “Where has that been? I know what you’re like with experiments.”

Arthur shrugs and looks at it for a while, then shrugs again and finishes filling it.

“I don’t think I put anything in it, except tea for picnics,” Arthur says, passing it over with a smile, “but the tin soldiers might have.”

“The tin soldiers?”

Arthur shrugs again and starts clearing the table, leaving all the used things on a tray by the door, set on a small table. He leaves the clean mugs and his own, leaves the wooden soldier propped up, and goes to the set of heavy curtains that make up one wall. Merlin gapes when Arthur opens them to reveal a further room, a bed and arm chair and sofa, another window. This window is not real, Merlin can tell, it’s magic. The only thing there is a wall, but it looks like the window looks out across mountains.

“You can sit on the chair, if you like,” Arthur says, taking the sofa for himself, “but perhaps the sofa is better. It is the more comfortable of the two.”

Merlin goes to sit on the sofa. He sits closer to Arthur than he means to, Arthur’s weight shifting him nearer. Arthur smiles, though, so Merlin doesn’t move. Arthur relaxes back into the cushions with a small sigh, smile widening, hand resting on Merlin’s knee.

“It’s nice,” Arthur says, softly, “to not be alone.”

“Have you been alone long?” Merlin asks.

“As long as I can remember. Just the Outside Standers, and then, a few years ago, Leon.”

“The Outside Standers?”

“The ones who stand outside. I don’t know who they are, so I call them that.”

“What about the boy who you make birds for?” Merlin asks, remembering.

“He’s not real,” Arthur says, looking up at the ceiling, “none of them are real. I discovered, this morning, all the birds in a cupboard, with all the soldier’s limbs. They were crushed and broken, but I recognised them. And I can’t find the books I copied from, now, which means that they never were.”

“You said you had lots of people over, not just the boy. And what about the people coming later?”

“No one’s coming later. I don’t believe in them any more.”

“Who were they?”

“They came, and brought gold, and made my soldier real. Lancelot of the Lake, the most beautiful knight of all, and my own. He’s just wood, though, and there’s no gold, and no boy who gets the birds, and my friends… “ Arthur turns to Merlin, face grave once more, “you. You are my only friend.”

Merlin stares back, feeling pity and something deeper, something more like sympathy, or empathy. He knows loneliness, after all. Knows it intimately, hates it, does all he can to pretend it doesn’t exist.

“Might I kiss you?” Arthur asks, softly.

Before Merlin can agree, Arthur goes for it. He’s clumsy, enthusiastic, inexperienced, but Merlin would be incredibly surprised if this were Arthur’s first kiss. He doesn’t believe that everyone but he is a figment of Arthur’s imagination, not the way Arthur acts and speaks. He reaches out to touch, to gently guide Arthur by the chin to a better angle, then guides him through another kiss. He hasn’t kissed anyone for a long time, not since Gwaine kissed him to get them through a sticky situation without being noticed. Before that, he and Mordred had a mutually beneficial thing for a while, but his life doesn’t exactly invite romance. Arthur pulls back and smiles, pressing a thumb to Merlin’s cheek bone.

“Is that okay?” Arthur asks, soft, a little hoarse.

“Yes,” Merlin says.

“I know that you’re real, at least,” Arthur says, “because I’ve never been able to make someone up like you.”

“Is that a compliment?” Merlin asks.

“Of course it is,” Arthur says, affronted, voice strong and certain of himself again.

This time, when he kisses Merlin, he’s more confident, and the kiss is better for that. They sit for a while, hands tangled, not saying much, exchanging kisses, watching one another. Arthur eventually gets up and walks around the room, agitated. Merlin watches him.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, decisively. “I would love for you to stay here, but you need to leave. I don’t know why, but something… or someone… is coming.”

Merlin hesitates, but decides that he trusts Arthur’s weird feelings, even if Arthur himself isn’t sure they’re real. He slips out of the window without a fuss, only pausing to give Arthur a reassuring kiss and promising to see him again soon. He walks in the wrong direction for a while, just in case, and then gets a few trains before going home to Gaius.

It takes Gaius almost a month to find anything useful in the book of the dead, during which time Merlin spends as many days as possible in Arthur’s rooms, getting to know the man. He never goes without Leon fetching him, but he’s always glad when the knight shows up. Since that evening he’s even getting to like the man. Sort of. As much as he can like someone who never shows what they’re thinking, never speaks much, and never stays beyond the necessary time.

Arthur is agitated more and more throughout the month. Though to begin with they spend a lot of time making out on the sofa, they don’t get any further. They spend less and less time touching as Arthur spends more and more time pacing, making soldiers, talking to himself. Merlin sees why people pay no attention to most of the things Arthur says. He talks to himself and talks back, taking on more than one voice, more than one accent, more than one tone. Merlin always waits it out, but he doesn’t really know how to deal with it.

He’s worried about more than Arthur, too: he hasn’t heard from Gwaine. He was expecting something to come for him within days of their meeting at the pub, but nothing has and it’s been five weeks. He’s sat at Arthur’s table, brooding, watching Arthur put together a machine for, according to Arthur, making music. Merlin’s sprawled among cogs and bits of wire and metal sheets, idly spinning a cog around and around on the table, trying to think through all the reasons that Gwaine hasn’t got in touch that don’t involve words like ‘arrest’, ‘drunk’, ‘damaged’, or, worst of all, ‘dead’.

“Pass me those pliers?” Arthur says, holding out a hand.

Merlin puts the closest tool into it and moves his head to watch the machine bend to Arthur’s will. Arthur’s less agitated when working on something, which leaves Merlin to his own thoughts and agitations. It’s nice, though, to see Arthur a bit more relaxed and happy. As Merlin thinks this, all the muscles in Arthur seem to tense at once and the pliers skitter out of his hand and off the table, thunking to the floor, taking a cascade of pieces of junk with them. Arthur turns to the door, shoulders hunching forwards.

“Get under the table,” he hisses at Merlin.

Merlin does as he’s told without asking. He crouches, watching the door, watching Arthur’s trousers, tensing himself, breathing too hard. He calms himself to slow his breathing, quieting, stilling, just as the door slowly opens. Merlin frowns. He didn’t hear any of the locks clicking open. When the door is wide enough someone sweeps in, a deep red dress dusting the floor.

“Arthur,” they say, and it’s a man’s voice. “Hello.”

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Arthur says, plaintive, unhappy.

“Yes, well, Leon called me and told me you were acting up.”

“He didn’t,” Arthur says. “Did he?”

There’s silence, and the dress sweeps closer to Arthur, and Arthur leans towards it.

“I’m so sorry, I really am. I wish… I wish… But, this is for the best, I promise you. Just have patience, I promise you. I promise.”

“What must I do?”

“Drink this. It is from Amhain.”

“Alright.”

There’s a moment of silence, then the dress sweeps out again and the door snicks shut. Merlin climbs out from under the table and goes to try it, but it’s locked. He turns to Arthur, mouth open to question him, but Arthur’s eyes are glazed, and he’s already turned back to the mess on the table, mechanically tightening things in his machine.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks.

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking up, smiling. “You’ve come to visit. Shall I make tea?”

Merlin blinks.

“Um, no thanks.”

“Okay. I’m making…” Arthur looks down, frowning.

“It’s a machine for making music,” Merlin says, softly.

Arthur nods. He seems to have lost the thread of his idea, though. He puts his tools down and turns the machine one way and then the other, frown deepening, then he smiles and shrugs, pushing it aside.

“Never mind,” Arthur says, smiling inanely, eyes still fuzzy.

Merlin goes over and tilts his face, trying to get a better look at his eyes. His pupils are wide, as if he’s taken too much of one of Gaius’s pain potions.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks.

“Hello,” Arthur says, pushing a bit closer.

Merlin kisses him, meaning to just be reassuring before examining him closer. Arthur tenses slightly, before relaxing into it and becoming almost desperate, grasping at Merlin, fingers tightening and loosening in Merlin’s clothes, gasping for breath between one kiss and the next. Merlin pulls back, hand on Arthur’s cheek, trying to gentle him.

“Shh,” he says. “Iit’s alright. What’s wrong?”

“You kissed me.”

“Yes, we’ve been doing that a while. Don’t you remember?”

“I… maybe it wasn’t real,” Arthur says, voice high, uncertain, eyes searching Merlin’s face.

“It was real. It’s real, I’m real. What did they do to you, hmm? What did they give you?”

“It’s for the best, this way is the best, it’s the only way. It’s for me.”

Merlin sighs, but there’s not much he can do. Except.. unless…

“You drank something,” Merlin says, feeling something urgent tug at him. “What was it in?”

Arthur picks up the mug he’s been drinking coffee from all afternoon and hands it over. Merlin tucks it into a pocket.

“You should go,” Arthur says, miserably. “But will you come again?”

“Of course, of course I will. Whenever you like.”

“It can’t be so soon, this time,” Arthur says, sounding tired.

“Alright.”

Arthur nods and gestures to the window. Merlin gives him another kiss and hugs him goodbye before leaving. He doesn’t look back, not wanting to see. He goes home the short way and bursts into the office, slumping into one of the chairs around Gaius’s table. Gaius looks at him over the rims of his glasses, pen hovering over a sheet of paper already covered in his spidery hand.

“It went badly?” Gaius asks.

“I don’t know. Someone showed up,” Merlin says.

He doesn’t tell Gaius everything, but he tells him enough that Gaius promises to see if he can find anything out from the cup.

“I would prefer not to make it a priority, right now. From what you said, I don’t think whoever it was meant him any harm,” Gaius says, putting the cup into a plastic bag, “and I’m so close to this, Merlin. I think I’ve found the right pages.”

“I dunno,” Merlin says. “It was weird, Gaius.”

“Give me two days, then It’ll be top of the list, I promise.”

Merlin agrees, grudgingly. He sits with Gaius for a while and lets Gaius talk through what he’s found so far, unrelated to the spell Merlin wants. It’s not of much interest to Merlin, but it’ll be good for Mordred’s work. He takes some notes in the shorthand only he can read, then tucks his notebook into his inside pocket and wanders off in search of food.

He doesn’t hear from Arthur, but, after two days, he does hear from Gwaine. All he gets is a piece of metal in the milk, which he might have swallowed if he were careless. Luckily, Gaius likes to have the milk transferred from the bottles the milkman leaves into the jugs they keep in the fridge, because he thinks it keeps for longer. Merlin just gets a scratch on his finger when he scoops the sharp shard out.

He rides a lot of trains, round and round, before alighting at the wrong suburb and pulling on his mask. He does his usual thing of spending a bit of time in a pub, then slips away and walks the old train line. He keeps walking until he comes to the third signal point, then takes a sharp right into the bushy undergrowth. He comes out on cracked tarmac, and Gwaine’s stood there, a football balanced on one toe, poised. As Merlin arrives the ball goes sailing through the air, into the makeshift goal of two shirts, and the woman with Gwaine gives a war cry and runs, leaping on him, taking them both to the ground. Merlin fetches the ball and sits on one of the shirts, waiting for Gwiane to notice him and send the girl away.

“Hey, Enigma,” Gwaine says, sweaty, grinning. “Got my message, then?”

“Cut my finger on your ‘message’.”

Gwaine laughs and gathers his things, taking the ball from Merlin and nudging him up to his feet. They walk across the tarmac towards the estate houses.

“Do you live here?” Merlin asks.

“Nah,” Gwaine says, “Just squatting for a bit. Elli told me about this place, no one’s lived there for years, someone died there so it won’t sell. So, I’ve taken it over for the time being.”

“Any ghosts?” Merlin asks, only half joking.

“Not a one.”

He leads Merlin to a semi detached bungalow and slips through the wild back garden, climbing in over the fence and jimmying the back door.

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

Merlin’s been to several of these places with Gwaine before, and he’s pretty sure that Gwaine doesn’t live here and hasn’t lived in any of the previous ones. There’s just something untruthful about it all. Not that he minds, neutral ground is fine by him. Gwaine’s got a table set up and cards already out, though it’s not necessary away from prying eyes. Merlin sits and deals for solitaire.

“So,” he says. “What’s this about another claim to Uther’s Parentage?”

Gwaine sits opposite Merlin and puts a red queen on a black king. Merlin slaps his hands away with a glare. Gwaine just shrugs.

“Just rumours, Enny.”

“Enny?”

“Enigma is too long. How about Gaga? Or Ma?”

“Just tell me.”

“For?”

Merlin pulls one of the small packets of coffee Arthur’s taken to slipping into his pocket and passes it over. Gwaine tears it open and sniffs it suspiciously, then goes cross eyed.

“Cool. How much do you have?” Gwaine says.

“Depends.”

“Okay, okay. The rumours go that Uther fathered a son, with the empress Ygraine, before she died.”

“The rumours also go that Ygraine was sterile.”

“The woman who told me the story was Ygraine’s serving maid,” Gwaine counters with. “The babe was conceived with magic. By Nimueh.”

Merlin is careful not to react, but Nimueh had lead bloody rebellion against Uther before being burnt on a public pyre, the first burning for generations. Previous to her rebellion, punishment for magic use was life imprisonment and hard labour.

“Ah, I can see that interests you,” Gwaine says. “The woman showed me Ygraine’s crest, that she had stolen. The crest that was kept in the empress’s rooms and never left there until it vanished. No one’s ever tracked it down. It’s unlikely it was sold.”

Merlin sighs and hands over another packet of coffee.

“Mm,” Gwaine says. “The baby, because of the magic, or maybe because of the sterility, or some unknown reason, was simple and Uther had him buried along with his mother.”

Merlin knows that’s not the end of the story. He gives Gwaine the last packet and flashes a note.

“The woman said that the boy didn’t die, but she doesn’t know what did happen to him.”

Merlin keeps the note. Gwaine shrugs, gathering his coffee to him, reaching down a box and storing all three packets.

“That’s all I’ve got,” he says, gesturing to the door.

Merlin places the last card, then builds the stacks up from the aces, then he gives Gwaine a long, hard look. He waits until Gwaine’s squirming and uncomfortable, then nods and leaves. Gwaine might be a rogue, but this time he’s told most of the truth, Merlin’s sure. He weighs the dangers of going back to Mordred so soon, then slips through into the ghetto.

This late it’s empty, no signs of anyone living here. A young man runs across Merlin’s path and ducks into an alley, but that’s it, Merlin sees no one else. Only the soldiers, about to enforce curfew, readying their weapons. Merlin can see marks of raids, new since his last visit. He speeds up and ducks through into Mordred’s rooms without waiting.

“This time, you are expected,” Mordred says.

Merlin doesn’t ask, he never knows. Either Gwaine, or Gaius, or someone else has let Mordred know to expect him and the less he knows about that, the less he can tell if he’s ever captured. No one knows everything, not even Mordred. They’re all just like Arthur’s cogs, making the machine go round. Merlin passes on all the information, including the notes from the book, then hands Mordred the coffee he has left.

“Do something with it. Sell it, drink it, share it, hoard it, whatever,” Merlin says.

“Thank you. Though-“

“I know. This isn’t charity.”

Mordred nods, putting the coffee away. Merlin stands awkwardly, before hurrying away. He runs into the soldiers, sweeping the streets, but he’s quick enough and knows the streets well enough to avoid the chase. They don’t bother putting magic users on this detail, Merlin knows, there’s little point in the ghetto.

Gaius doesn’t find what he’s looking for before his two days are out, but it doesn’t take him more than a day to find what Merlin wants from the mug. Merlin covers the shop most of the time these days, and he’s just shown the last customer out and is locking up when Gaius comes through looking worried.

“You’d better come into the office, Merlin,” he says.

Merlin clunks the shutters into place and takes the till with him back into the office, locking it into the safe for Gaius to count later.

“I have found traces of various herbs in the coffee,” Gaius says, “the effect of which, combined, I believe would cause forgetfulness and confusion. It may explain your friend.”

“You mean they’re making him… simple?” Merlin asks.

“Perhaps,” Gaius says, leaning forwards. “But Merlin, they are herbs. They would not be enough to induce the kind of mental illness you’ve described, in my opinion. If I could meet the man, I could judge better. As it is, I can only tell you ‘perhaps’. They are harmless, also. There would be no long term effects, it would wear off.”

“That must be why they make him drink it often!”

“You’ve only seen them do it once,” Gaius points out. Merlin sulks. “I’m not saying it’s not worrying, or that you’re wrong, I’m just saying-“

“Be careful,” Merlin mocks, “yeah, I know. Always ‘be careful, Merlin, be CAREFUL’.”

“I’ll not apologise for caring about you.”

“Fine. Then, I am going to bed.”

“I will work on a way to reverse the effect tomorrow, but then I must go back to the book.”

“Fine.”

Merlin doesn’t sleep well that night, and when Arthur doesn’t call for him for the rest of the week his mood only sinks. Gaius finds neither cure nor shielding spell and by Sunday evening Merlin’s about ready to kill something. He’s stomping around the shop, wondering if he can break anything without getting into too much trouble, when Gaius comes out looking exhausted.

“I can find nothing,” Gaius says, frustrated. “It’s not here.”

“I could just try it out.”

Gaius just glares.

“I will go back and go over a few passages again, check my translation. There are few… hopeful…” Gaius trails off with a deep sigh, rubbing his eyes.

Merlin softens. He is fond of the old man, after all, and seeing him working himself to exhaustion for him, worrying about him, caring for him, is not lost on Merlin.

“It’s alright, Gaius. Get some rest, we can work on it again tomorrow.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“Or Tuesday, even. Take a break, time away, then go back with clearer eyes.”

“that’s not a bad idea. Yes, you are right.”

“Of course I am. Now, go rest!”

Gaius goes.

Merlin did not mean, when he told Gaius to rest and take time away, for Gaius to get up early on Monday and start work on the remedy for Arthur, but that is what Gaius does. Merlin broods in the shop for the morning, worrying about him, but then Gaius comes out looking refreshed and the worry settles a little.

“I may have found something,” Gaius says.

Merlin jumps off the stool and rushes over, tries to take the vial Gaius is holding. Gaius pulls it out of his reach and holds up a finger.

“Hold on, this isn’t play. This is dangerous. The mixture of herbs should, if I have done this correctly, reverse the other, but it may also have side effects.”

“Such as?”

“Sleep, confusion, headaches, migraines, nausea. If Arthur takes it and has difficulty breathing, you will have to call for help from the medics. If he has a seizure, again you’ll have to call for help.”

“Gaius!”

“It’s likely to happen, but there’s risk. You have to decide if you want to be found there, in that locked room, with this strange man in danger.”

Merlin takes the vial and this time Gaius lets it go.

He runs, but he isn’t reckless enough to go the straight route. He takes the most winding way he can. If he does get into trouble, he doesn’t want anyone to be able to track it back to Gaius’s shop. He doesn’t use the trains, because that’s what he usually does. Instead he walks, runs, and jogs, for more than two hours, finally fumbling his way into Arthur’s rooms and collapsing against the wall, panting to get his breath.

Arthur’s not there. This is the first time Merlin’s tried to visit without being fetched and for a moment he thinks he’s miscalculated and Arthur’s out, stealing honey cake or riding Tilly, but then the curtains hiding the second room sweep open and Merlin gets up, grinning. It’s not Arthur emerging, though.


	4. Chapter 4

“Give me your hands, warlock.”

 

Merlin holds them out without thinking. The old woman takes them. Her skin is softer than he expects, though her grip is not gentle. She closes her eyes but before they fall completely shut they spark gold. 

 

“Emrys,” she hisses, eventually, letting his hands fall, bowing her head to him. 

 

That’s when Arthur wanders out of his curtained off bed area, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers, munching on an apple. He smiles at Merlin vaguely and goes to his table, picking up a tin soldier. 

 

“Hullo, Merlin,” Arthur says, playing with the tin pieces scattered about, apple held in his teeth. There’s no battle set up today, no Mercian magic users, just a few soldiers that need healing. 

 

“He doesn’t think I’m real,” the woman says, softly, sounding incredibly sad about that. “I must go. Do not tell him.”

 

Don’t tell him what? Merlin thinks. She’s gone, though, before he can ask. Arthur bites the apple and lets it fall to the table, dropping the soldier and tin after it, and comes over to Merlin. He wraps an arm around his waist and nuzzles into his neck. 

 

“Mm,” Arthur mumbles, “hullo.”

 

“Hi,” Merlin says. “I uh, I…”

 

He fingers the vial in his pocket, then puts it away. He cradles Arthur’s face and lifts his head so he can meet his eyes.

 

“Arthur,” he says, slow and serious, which makes Arthur gaze back at him, wide eyed, guileless. “Are you happy?”

 

Arthur just smiles at him. 

 

“Like this, I mean,” Merlin goes on, babbling now. “Forgetting, not knowing, being unsure? Are you happy?”

 

Arthur’s smile turns gentle and he presses a thumb to Merlin’s nose, making him go cross eyed. 

 

“I am happy,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin hesitates, but then he decides to trust Arthur and takes his word for it, putting the vial out of his mind. Gaius asks him about it, later, when he gets back, but Merlin just shrugs and says he’ll save it, what with the risk. Gaius doesn’t question him, and the next day the knights chase a magic user down and put her to death in the street, setting her alight where she stands. She’s barely twelve years old. 

 

“You have to find it, Gaius,” Merlin says, his head on the table, not able to bear looking at the world. 

 

“I know, my boy. I am trying. Let’s go back to the manuscript where you found the mention, see if we can glean anything else.”

 

Merlin gropes about the table, not raising his head, until Gaius puts the paper into his hand. He stays still a bit longer, eyes shut. 

 

“We cannot save her now, Merlin. We didn’t know, we couldn’t foresee. You’ve saved so many, but you can’t save them all. What you can do it work on saving the next one. We will have time to grieve when we have peace.”

 

Merlin looks up into Gaius’s eyes and they’re soft with understanding and shared pain. He’s seen so many die, Merlin remembers, and some were those he loved. Merlin nods and settles in to study the manuscript. For the next few hours they sit in companionable silence, passing on the information they dig out, taking turns making tea. 

 

“Here it is,” Merlin says. “It was this story about the sleeping heroes, the translation from Muirden. Hey, is she related to Edwin Muirden?”

 

“She was his grandmother,” Gaius says. “I knew both her and her daughter. What does the story say?”

 

“It’s the one about the seven great warriors sleeping under the hill, only to be woken by the Horn, with a capital ‘h’. The hill is supposed to be hidden, like the lake of Avalon, but from even those with magic. Maybe it’s just a myth.”

 

“Warrior sleeping… warriors sleeping…”

 

“Gaius?”

 

“Hang on.”

 

They pass tidbits back and forth, hoping to discover something. Anything. 

 

“The children of Lir, or Llyr, are never discovered, the curse… I guess most aren’t, though.”

 

“There’s something here about someone being lost.”

 

“I don’t need to be more lost than I already am, Gaius!”

 

The sun goes down and they still sit together, searching. 

 

“Try the book about beasts, Merlin. Perhaps this Griffin… it’s mentioned in the same place as the word warriors. I wish Geoffrey would help with this translation, I can only do the literal translation, not the meaning.”

 

“Okay, okay. Griffins.”

 

“I’ll make us some tea. While you’re looking for that, you might as well dig out the History of Dragons, see if the old Dragon Lords have anything to say on the matter.”

 

By the time the sun comes up the table is strewn with manuscripts, scraps of paper, notebooks, great tomes, diaries, pens, and asleep among it all is Merlin. Gaius is still squinting down at the book of the dead, glasses perched on his nose, lips moving in concentration. He shifts forwards to the front of his seat and reads on, faster, pen poised over his notes, scribbling out a word here and there and replacing. 

 

“This is it,” he mutters.

 

He looks up, sees Merlin is sleeping, and hits him gently round the ear with one of the slimmer books. 

 

“Ow!” Merlin squawks, waking with a start, rubbing at his ear. 

 

“I have it, Merlin. I mistranslated two words! This is it. You were right when you got us onto the sleeping warriors, it’s right here. Kilgharrah, the last dragon, woke them a hundred years ago.”

 

“How does that help us?” Merlin asks, yawning and stretching.

 

“He could find them,” Gaius says, as if that makes everything clear.

 

“So? We want something that people can’t find, not-“

 

“Merlin! If he could find them, it stands to reason that it was he who hid them!”

 

“Does it? I’m not sure that-“

 

“There is other evidence, would you like me to lay it out for you? On page twenty four, we can translate-“

 

“No, no! I take your word for it. Kilgharrah sent them to sleep. So, we need dragon magic to hide the traces? That’s not all that useful.”

 

“I don’t think we need go that far. I think we can use something Druidic, perhaps mix a little of your own more instinctive magic in. Nature and instinct, that should be far enough from the synthetic magic usually used, closer to the dragon’s breath. We have a starting place, anyway.”

 

“And why is it in the book of the dead? Do I still have to be impossibly careful? Can’t I just, you know, try it out?”

 

“You cannot simply draw magic from the earth to hide yourself, Merlin! I’ve told you this before, have I not?”

 

“You told me it would corrupt.”

 

“Yes, if you manage to control that kind of power, it will corrupt you. If you don’t, it will do as it pleases, turning you into a tree, or making you part of the earth, or who knows what, maybe just killing you!”

 

“Right. No doing that, then.”

 

“Okay. This spell that the dragon used, I think we can do something with this. It is in the book of the dead, though, because upon waking, the heroes crumbled to dust. You cannot outlive your life span, not once you’re brought back into the world in which it stretched. Remember Oisin and Tir Na Nog.”

 

“Right. Dust. I do not want to become that. I’m not taking myself out of time, though, am I?”

 

“I think perhaps the spell uses elements of that. I think it opens up a parallel space for your magic to work in, leaving the trace outside of this world. If that’s true, it could drag you through and yes. Dust.”

 

“So we work on it.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Damn it! I thought once we found it...”

 

“I think I can find the words here, Merlin. We’re close. Now, you have work to do.”

 

“I do? Do you want the shop opened? I thought the ban was still in place. No business till all the culprits are caught and burnt. So far they have none of the child’s accomplices.”

 

“Not the shop. Mordred. You need to go to the ghetto, show your face, be Emrys. The people need hope.”

 

Merlin wonders when it was that he became some mythical emblem of hope, but he doesn’t ask. Gaius always just raises his eyebrow when he asks, and eloquent as Gaius’s eyebrows are, that’s no answer. Merlin gathers his things and makes his way up to the centre of town, near where Arthur lives, before getting a train out and walking the old track back round to the wall. 

 

The streets before the ghetto are empty, no street stalls, the smell of spice dulled. No one’s out, everyone’s cowering in-doors. The only people on the streets will be at places like the Rising Sun, where masked men care not for Uther’s law. The guard on the ghetto has grown to four times it’s size and though Merlin has little trouble slipping through, he does have trouble making his way through.

 

It’s chaos. The soldiers have dragged everyone into the streets and are holding them while more soldier ransack houses and alleys, throwing things and shooting and burning and breaking. There’s a whole street in flames, people screaming, trying to put it out with water from the only well close by. Merlin uses his magic to douse the fire and moves through the rubble, searching for people needing help. There’s no one, though. No one left alive. As he moves further in, he sees two knights making their way towards a group of soldiers who hold four children. 

 

Merlin watches as the knights approach, waits for them to make their move, to threaten, to ‘gather information’, then he shifts his weight and everyone turns to him. He stands, hands in his pockets, and smiles until the soldiers let go of the children. 

 

“Run,” Merlin says. 

 

The children do and the soldiers laugh, the knights curse.

 

“I didn’t mean them,” Merlin says, soft, dangerous. 

 

The soldiers look at him, then take to their heels. The knights just give him a glance and move on. Merlin wants to follow them, to chase them away, to defend, but he cannot. Not now, not without using magic that would call hell down upon the ghetto. Or Edwin at least, perhaps even Morgause, the second magic user in the army, nearly the strongest. Merlin moves further, using small magic to help the people he finds littering the streets, healing where he can, helping to bury with dignity where he cannot. 

 

He comes across Mordred sometime in the afternoon sitting on a pile of rubble that was once someone’s front garden. Mordred doesn’t look at him, doesn’t seem to be able to see anything, his eyes distant, silver with his magic. Talking to his people, Merlin knows. Trying to help, to do something. Merlin sits with him for a bit, taking a small break, having a drink of water. Mordred leans into him for a brief moment and Merlin knows that this time it’s bad. 

 

“I wish I could fix it all,” Merlin says.

 

“So do I,” Mordred replies. “I need something from you.”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Find Gwaine, and his friend, Percival. Get as much information as you can about something called the Morrigan. Also, I need information on a man known as the knight of the lake.”

 

Merlin starts, just a little, something pinging in his memory. He can’t quite grasp it, though. 

 

“Morrigan and Knight of the Lake. Right.”

 

“I also need you to do something else for me, of another nature.”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“It will be dangerous, and it would not be… it would be reckless.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

“I want people to know. That she isn’t forgotten. She was eleven, Merlin. Just eleven years old.”

 

“Tell me, then.”

 

“I want the palace stones torn up, the courtyard destroyed, the people slaughtered, like my home, my people. But, I will take what I can get. Go to the street where they cornered her. Do as you wish.”

 

“Tell me about her.”

 

“She liked flowers, according to her mother. She liked making daisy chains, liked wearing things in her hair. She liked stories.”

 

Merlin nods. It’s enough. 

 

“Priorities?” he asks. 

 

“Do this, first. Make it good, Merlin. We need it.”

 

Merlin nods. He walks for a while, talking to people, listening, doing what he can. Then he leaves the destruction for another street. 

 

It’s peaceful, where she died, nothing to show for the event but a bare patch where grass should have grown. Merlin stands before it and closes his eyes, searching for her, inside and outside himself. He finds her, in Mordred’s description, in other people’s stories, in the earth and air, and then he reaches into the earth. He doesn’t worry about leaving traces. Everyone will know that this is Emrys, everyone will know. He reaches deeper and deeper until he feels the earth shift beneath his feet, then raises his arms, slowly, pulling up the seeds and rains and fertile soil, calling on every element around him. 

 

When he opens his eyes, the street is gone. In it’s place, between the two rows of houses, there is earth and grass, and tall flowers. In the spot where she died the grass and buds and petals grow upwards, up the wall at the end of the alley where she was cornered, covering the bricks and growing on top, up towards the sky, higher and higher, turning and twining about one another, up into the sky, up and up. 

 

Merlin nods and leaves, ducking and weaving his way through the city until he can leave the traces behind, then riding a train as far as it goes and walking another few miles. By the time he finds Gwaine, going from tavern to tavern, the sky is darkening. 

 

“Ah, Enigma,” Gwaine says, slurring a little with drink, when Merlin slides in across from him. “Here to drown this sorrowful city with me?”

 

“No, I am not,” Merlin says, taking away the glass of beer and muttering a sobering spell that has just enough effect to make Gwaine glare, not enough to bring any attention to them.

 

“You’re one of those,” Gwaine says, a coldness creeping into his voice. “I should have known.”

 

“I,” Merlin says, leaning forwards. “Am Emrys.”

 

Gwaine’s eyes widen. He looks around, panicked, but no one else has heard. Merlin watches him, relaxed. Gwaine might as well know, it will scare the shite out of him. Merlin wants him on the run for this. He’s heard just enough of the rumours about the Morrigan to know that he needs Gwaine of the run.

 

“I’m out, Enigma,” Gwiane says, pushing himself away from the table and bolting. 

 

Merlin follows him at a more leisurely pace, knowing he won’t lose him. Gwaine waits at a corner for him, then leads him a merry chase through dark streets and dank alleys until they reach wider streets and brighter alleys, and still wider streets and still wider until they’re in the circle of houses that is close to the emperor’s palace. Gwaine lets them in through a locked front gate, and Merlin knows that he’s finally where Gwaine really lives. 

 

He doesn’t speak, just follows Gwaine up the long front garden to the huge front door and into the clean, light passage. Gwaine leads him to the kitchens, kicking off his shoes on the way. There’s a set of clothes hanging over a chair by the fire and a note on top of a covered dish. Gwaine changes, showing no modesty what so ever, and before Merlin can blink, there’s a young stood before him. 

 

“Well? What do you think?” Gwaine says.

 

“In the line of sharing identities, it works,” Merlin says. “I admit to being a little surprised.”

 

“Good. Now, no one’s here, Becka leaves the notes if she’s gone home already and she’s the only one who ever comes in.”

 

“You’re wife?”

 

“My servant,” Gwaine corrects, sitting at the table and uncovering his dinner. He offers Merlin a bite, but when Merlin refuses he tucks in with gusto, making a mess. “What do you need?”

 

“The Morrigan,” Merlin says, not bothering to beat around the bush.

 

Gwaine puts down his cutlery, covers his dinner, wipes his mouth and then looks at Merlin, face grim. 

 

“You’ll have to show me your face for that,” Gwaine says. 

 

Merlin gets up to leave. He can’t show his face, it’s not just himself who would be in danger. He can’t reveal his magic and his face, it’s one or the other. The only people who know him, all of him, are Gaius, his mother, and Mordred. He stands for a moment, meaning to leave, but he can’t. He sits again. 

 

“You don’t know what you are asking,” he says.

 

Gwaine shrugs. 

 

“That’s the cost.”

 

Merlin thinks. Then he nods. 

 

“Then I will tell you the cost of not talking,” Merlin says, raising his hand. 

 

There’s a moment where he lets the threat hang in the air, and then he shows Gwaine just what he can do and just how much pain he can cause, just how much destruction and rage are within him at the moment. When he’s done the house has collapsed around them, only the roof and walls left standing. 

 

“Find me. The Rising Sun, in four hours. If you want your house rebuilt and think perhaps you wish to talk,” Merlin says.

 

He leaves. This time he has to run. He will have been detected, this close to the palace, using that much magic. Before he’s gone two streets over he hears the pounding feet of the knights. He finds himself, twenty minutes later, falling into Arthur’s room and begging for sanctuary, for the second time. Arthur points to the curtains and then turns back to his table. Today he’s working on a drawing, and he’s talking to it. 

 

Merlin listens from behind the curtains as the knights come and question Arthur again. This time they do not simply leave when Arthur tells them he doesn’t know. Merlin can change his trace a little, but the strength of the magic is similar enough that Arthur’s rooms are now suspect. It was the only place, other than the ghetto, that Merlin could think of, though. He waits. 

 

“Sir,” Edwin says, Merlin recognises his voice. “Would you object to our searching your rooms, just to ensure your safety?”

 

“Not at all,” Arthur says. 

 

Merlin looks around and then scuttles under the bed, waiting to be discovered. He expects a troupe of the knights to come charging through, like they do at the houses in the ghetto, but all that happens is Edwin’s magic comes feeling, soft and careful, around the room. It passes over Merlin, the magic in him already faded (another thing, according to Gaius, that makes him impossible). Merlin follows it back to the curtains and peers through. 

 

Edwin’s crouched on the window sill, eyes closed, face twisted in the light from Arthur’s lamps. He looks exhausted, Merlin realises, and there’s a moment where he feels a strange mixture of pity, revulsion and exhilaration at his pain. Edwin closes his fists as the last of his magic withdraws. 

 

“I thought you were going to search, aren’t you coming in?” Arthur says.

 

He holds out a hand and takes Edwin’s, and gives it a pull. Edwin topples into the room and falls to the floor. Merlin expects him to leap up, to do something, but he just lies there. Arthur looks down at him then up at the knights. 

 

“Oh dear. Is he ill?” Arthur says. 

 

“No, sir,” someone says. “We… we’ll look elsewhere!”

 

The knights all hurry away. 

 

“Oh well,” Arthur says, kneeling by Edwin, “just you and me, then, Edwin.”

 

Merlin stays where he is, unsure of what’s happening. For a moment there’s cold harshness in Arthur’s tone, but then he gets up and goes to knock on the door. This time, Merlin sees the Outside Standers. There are two of them, both men, both wearing the Pendragon crest and the city insignia emblazoned on their shoulders. They’re soldiers rather than knights, but their ranks are high. 

 

“I seem to have accidentally harmed Edwin Muirden,” Arthur says, “someone should perhaps come fetch him.”

 

Arthur goes back to his drawing. Merlin stands, waiting. 

 

After about ten minutes the door’s locks snick and the bolts crack and the door opens, revealing Morgause. 

 

“Hullo,” Arthur says, with a friendly smile, “are you here for tea?”

 

Morgause doesn’t answer. Her eyes turn a dull gold and Edwin floats out into the corridor. Morgause gives Arthur a long, steady look, but Arthur doesn’t react, just smiles inanely at her and goes back to his picture. When the door slams Arthur turns to the curtains and slips through, pushing Merlin towards the sofa. 

 

“That was Edwin,” Arthur says, “he was going to hurt you, wasn’t he?”

 

“If he caught me, it was a possibility.”

 

“You made the flowers in the street.”

 

“How… yes?”

 

“They chase you because you have magic.”

 

Arthur reaches out and removes the mask Merlin had forgotten he still wore. Merlin looks at it in Arthur’s hand, the empty face, the crust of himself, and feels his own betrayal deep in his stomach. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. 

 

He looks down, away from Arthur, unable to hold his gaze. He thinks Arthur’s gone, for a moment, but then Arthur’s lifting his face, thumb hard and solid against his chin, fingers biting into his cheek. Merlin has no choice but to look up, right into Arthur’s wide, wondering eyes. 

 

“Do not be sorry,” Arthur says, then he kisses Merlin. 

 

Merlin lets himself be pushed back onto the bed, lets Arthur press close, roll them, kiss, hands roaming, lets Arthur do as he wishes, but then he remembers that he has work to do. 

 

“Arthur,” he says, between kisses. “Arthur, I have… I have to…”

 

Arthur pulls back, lips swollen, cheeks a hectic pink. Merlin presses the flushed skin, to get the paint of it on his fingers. 

 

“You asked me if I was happy,” Arthur says. “I am. But not always. I don’t like it when they come in. I don’t like it when they get hurt. I don’t understand why it happens, I don’t understand who gets to come and who has to stay out. I don’t know why they lock me in. I don’t know why they do not burn me for stealing honied-cake. I do not know why I am allowed to do things you are not. I do not understand, and I do not like it. I don’t think of it, I push it away, and someone comes and helps me forget. I need to forget, or I will truly go insane, Merlin. You cannot, you must not, cure me.”

 

Merlin opens his mouth, but Arthur opens his hand and shows Merlin the vial. Merlin never checked his pockets after that visit and he doesn’t know when Arthur took it. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, again. 

 

“Do not be sorry. It is wearing off, I can think. I still do not know the real from the imaged, I do not know who I am or even where I am. I cannot tell you what is happening, but I can think. I know that things are wrong. You are fixing them. With this.”

 

Arthur holds up the mask, carefully placing it over Merlin’s face, tying it behind his head in a neat bow. 

 

“And you must leave me,” Arthur says, sadly. 

 

“Not yet,” Merlin says, the ping in the back of his head waking up, “tell me about your wooden knight, your Lancelot, the knight of the lake.”

 

“I can’t. He’s gone,” Arthur says, “he left me.”

  
Merlin asks another question and another, but Arthur can answer none of them. At least Merlin has a name for Mordred, and perhaps he and Gaius can find something in one of the books. Perhaps. Merlin holds Arthur as long as he can before he has to run for the Rising Sun. He holds Arthur and whispers promises he might not be able to keep. 


	5. Chapter 5

“The Morrigan is threefold. A goddess, of sorts, though they are not referred to as such. Three sisters who are deities of war as one, as three they are sovereignty, battle and strife. They are associated with crows, with eels, wolves, cows. They turn up with death and war. They are part of a mythology. Why do you need this? It cost me dearly,” Merlin says.

 

He’s sitting with Mordred, hands joined, in the once-more peaceful ghetto. Or as peaceful as it can be after such brutal attack. There are mounds on all corners, cairns of stones in memory of the dead, surrounded by flowers and small items. Mordred opens his eyes, and they’re silver as he passes on the legend to his people.

 

“They are coming,” he says. “What else?”

 

“A few strands of rumour, nothing more. When Morgana fled, the legend was linked to her because of her name, that’s it.”

 

“There is more.”

 

“Only that people suspected crows of being her, but that’s just because of her name,” Merlin says, then sighs. “And I have found an old script, a family tree of sorts, where she is bracketed with battle. She was born of the day of her father, Gorlois’s, death. He died in battle. That’s all it means, surely?”

 

“Surely,” Mordred repeats.

 

“The Morrigan?” Merlin says, “seriously?”

 

“War is coming, Emrys. Are you ready?”

 

“Never. I believe in peace.”

 

Mordred just smiles at him, silver dimming. Merlin jerks his hands away and gets up to pace.

 

“I found nothing about the lake knight,” he snaps.

 

“Nothing?”

 

“No. Not a thing. Why do you need him?”

 

“He is supposed to be a mortal link to the land of the Sidhe.”

 

“More legends, more stories! If war is really coming, don’t you think something concrete would be useful?”

 

“Like you, you mean?”

 

Merlin flushes.

 

“Power corrupts,” Mordred says, serene, “absolute power corrupts absolutely. As a Lord once said. Historian and Moralist. One of yours.”

 

“One of mine?”

 

“Living outside of this hell,” Mordred says, meeting Merlin’s eyes squarely. “You do not live here, Merlin. I will bring war, if I find it necessary. We will be free, whatever the cost.”

 

“Whatever the cost?”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Merlin storms out. He doesn’t want a cost. He doesn’t want to pay. He’s supposed to help, not destroy. He could wave his hand and bring the Pendragon dynasty to his knees and right now he’s not certain why he doesn’t. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. What bullshit. No one has absolute power.

 

Merlin’s still in a rage when he makes it to a safe area of the city and removes his mask, and he’s still angry when he bumps right into Leon. He curses and shoves at the knight, uncaring of the fate the this will bring him, then storms towards Arthur’s rooms.

 

“He’s by the river,” Leon says, mildly, only a trace of irritation showing.

 

Merlin changes direction and waves a hand as if to say ‘I knew that’. He’s not happy when the knight follows on his heels. He’s had it up to here with the knights, the soldiers, the magic users, the royals, everyone in this stinking city. When they get to the river, Merlin, acting on his rage, gives Leon a shove and watching with satisfaction as the man goes sailing into the water. He spins on his heel when he hears sputtering laughter, but it’s just Arthur, beaming at him, laughing hard.

 

“Hello,” Merlin snaps, flinging himself into the grass and shading his eyes from the sun.

 

Arthur goes to fish Leon out, patting his back and soothing him but still laughing and shooting Merlin helpless looks of hilarity over his shoulder. Arthur’s excitement and joy works to chase away some of the clouds in Merlin’s mood and he gets to his feet and claps Leon on the shoulder. It makes a wet sound and he can’t help the snort that sneaks out.

 

“I am sorry, sir knight,” Merlin says. “You caught the tail end of a tantrum.”

 

“You’re lucky I don’t arrest you,” Leon says, ruefully.

 

“Ah, but if you did that, how would you explain what you were doing with me in the first place? What you were doing here? What he is doing here?” Merlin says, nudging Arthur. Arthur looks at him, eyes narrowed, then beams at Leon.

 

“I knew you were on my side, Leon. I knew it!” Arthur says, punching him on the arm.

 

“Why are you punching him?” Merlin asks.

 

“It’s affectionate,” Arthur says. “It cheers people up.”

 

“Whacking people cheers them up?” Merlin questions.

 

“It doesn’t, actually, sir,” Leon says, “and I must go. You may be right about many things, Merlin, but if you think it is I who allows him out, you are wrong.”

 

Merlin shrugs and flops into the grass again. Arthur flops beside him, knits their fingers together, and starts to hum.

 

“You seem happy,” Merlin says.

 

“I am. No one turned to ash today.”

 

“The emperor is recovering from Morgana’s betrayal.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“The Mercian magic users are the ones who were de-limbing my soldiers. I worked it out last week, and since then, no limbs have been lost. The soldiers have made peace and the land is more rich and fertile because of the magic.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I like you, Merlin.”

 

Merlin smiles and turns his head to look at Arthur, then lets his eyes shut, a little more content.

 

“Tell me about Lancelot,” Merlin says.

 

“He left,” Arthur says, as he has before.

 

“I know. I have told no one of him. I meant tell me what he’s like, what he was like before he left.”

 

Merlin’s not sure if it’s the reassurance that he hasn’t passed on Arthur’s secrets or the reminder that the past exists as well as the present, but Arthur perks up.

 

“He’s noble. He’s wooden most of the time, but sometimes, Amhain brings him alive. He’s very kind and chivalrous, and he’s got lovely hair. He has beautiful eyes and speaks in a tongue I don’t know, but he speaks our language, as well. He likes tea, not coffee. He likes honey. He’s a good man, one of those really good men. Like you, like Leon. Not like Edwin. He could be in my rooms without getting damaged.”

 

“He sounds nice.”

 

“He is. He visits me, sometimes. But not a lot. He’s busy. I could find him, though, if you want me to? Shall we find him?”

 

“No, I don’t think so. Not yet.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Merlin closes his eyes and relaxes, coaxing a few more things out of Arthur. Letting him talk about Lancelot however he likes. Most of it is affection. Merlin goes home in a much better mood. He makes a plan, for approaching Gwaine, and sets it in motion at the next opportunity.

 

“I need to talk to Percival. I’m told you know him.”

Merlin sips his tea, legs neatly crossed, and waits for Gwaine to react. They’re in Gwaine’s kitchen again, and Gwaine looks miserable but sober.  

“For Perce you really will have to show me your face.”

Gwaine lifts his chin, face hardening. Merlin considers threatening him again, but Gwaine moves so the table’s between them and his face turns tight with anger and stubbornness.  

“Burn my house down around me, take everything I have, hell, destroy this shithole of a city. I don’t care, do whatever you like. Without knowing your face, you can’t have Percy.”

Merlin considers that, then shrugs. He can’t show Gwaine his face, cannot let anyone else have his identity. It would bring too much danger to his mother, to Gaius, the ghetto. Even Gwaine. Merlin thinks about it for a while, considering, drinking his tea.  

“What about another face?” he offers, eventually.  

Gwaine hesitates.

“Depends. We could give it a try,” Gwaine says.  

Merlin nods. He admits to himself that he’s curious, and is doing this to see what will happen. He’s almost sure it will do no harm. He drains his mug.  

“I’ll need to set it up. I’ll contact you with a time and a place,” Merlin says, and then leaves Gwaine.  

He hasn’t seen Arthur since they talked about Lancelot, two weeks ago, but he has to have faith that he’ll be called for at some point. He goes back to Gaius’s and sits crossed legged on his bed, trying some of the breathing techniques and meditations his mother used to use to calm him down, centering himself, pushing away the anger, fear and misery of the last weeks.  

He meditates every day for the next week, and focuses on the shop, the house he shares with Gaius, getting repairs done and making sure they have at least one solid, healthy meal a day. Gaius is still caught up in his research so Merlin also makes sure the man has lunch and breakfast and gets some rest every night. He meditates at the end of the day, after closing the shop. They’re only allowed to open three days out of seven and only half days, outright bans on trading lifted but curtailments still in place. However, Gaius has a steady stream of ‘private’ clients who comes around the house, as ‘friends’, for ‘coffee’, who Merlin is tasked with helping out. They also have clients who bulk-buy to resell and a few shops who order stock of herbs from Gaius’s garden, so there’s plenty to do.  

Merlin’s sat, just breathing, after his nightly meditation, after a week. He’s breathing deeply and keeping his thoughts at bay, just relaxing, when he becomes aware that he isn’t alone. He forces his body not to react, just slowly opens his eyes and shifts, as if stretching. He jerks the knife off his bedside table and leaps off the bed, tripping over his feet and nearly skewering Leon. The knight looks surprised and a bit put out.  

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!” Merlin yells, dropping the knife and punching Leon’s shoulder instead.  

“You need to come with me,” Leon says, eyes flicking around the room, “now. I haven’t got much time.”

Merlin follows, grumbling only quietly and under his breath. He tugs on boots and jacket as quick as he can and jogs after Leon’s already retreating back. They hurry through the silent streets, people still afraid and curfew only a few hours away. Merlin realises that he’s not being taken to Arthur’s rooms and wonders what the man can possibly be up to at this time of day. Leon leads him to the city walls, then nudges him up to a pretty, chocolate-box cottage. The gate opens to a tap of Leon’s hand, some mechanism creaking, and when Merlin walks up the path a step rises out of the tiles in front of the door. The bell makes a clanking noise, then plays some kind of intricate piano tune.  

Merlin turns to ask Leon where he is, but Leon’s gone, ducking into an alley. Merlin looks back at the door and startles when he finds it open, a young man looking at him suspiciously. Merlin waves, tries a grin, then shrugs.  

“Hi, I’m Merlin, I’m here… um… hi.”

The man’s face clears and he grins, opening the door wider, eyes lightening from suspicion to amusement. He’s got a hood over his head but he pushes it back when Merlin steps inside and Merlin’s surprised to see scarring behind one ear, hair growing only to the edge of the damaged skin, and the sharp indent of a markin. Merlin tries not to stare, but must not succeed, because the man answers his unasked question.  

“I’m a smith. I left my family and my apprenticeship, and to get work I had to go to one of the big smithy towns. They branded me. I’m Elyan, nice to meet you. Come through.”

Merlin follows him. He’s never been to the big industry towns, the ones which trade in only their own craft, but Ealdor was close to one, just over the Camelot border. Merlin heard stories about the things they did there and never wanted to go anywhere near one. He doesn’t ask what made Elyan choose such a place to practise his skill. Elyan leads him through a narrow corridor and out into a round living room, comfy furniture spread about the place. The water pipes are on show, a sink in the corner of the room, the floorboards up underneath it to reveal heating coils. Arthur’s crouched by the uprooted floorboards, hands wrapped in dirty rags, fiddling with the mechanism.  

“He’s fixing my heating,” Elyan says, a note of awe in his voice that tells Merlin Elyan knows why the knights treat Arthur like he’s special.  Merlin doesn’t ask. He just goes to crouch by Arthur.  

“Hi,” Arthur says, smiling at him. “Look, can you see?”

Merlin peers down into the floor. Underneath the heating coils there are cogs and beneath that there are pipes and tanks and cooling systems. Merlin doesn’t know enough about machines to understand any of it, but he nods anyway.  

“Something fell in,” Arthur says, peering through the mess of layers, and then he reaches carefully down and feels about, sleeve up, grime and oil rubbing all up his arm and into his shirt. He frowns in concentration, then withdraws his arm and turns to root about in a box beside him. “I need a magnet.”

Merlin watches as Arthur reaches down again, this time with a lump of magnetised metal in his grasp. There’s a solid clunk and then Arthur’s withdrawing, much more carefully than before, and dangling from the magnet it a mechanical mouse. Merlin’s mouth drops open, but then he catches the guilty look on Arthur’s face and the way his gaze shifts to Elyan, as if to see if he noticed.  

“Oh for god’s sake. That blasted cat,” Elyan says, then stomps out of the room muttering about tea.  

Arthur grins at Merlin, sitting back on his heels, and puts the mouse carefully in what must be a tool box before getting to work putting the floorboards back.  

“Clunker is the best cat,” Arthur says, fondly, shoving a bit of wood into it’s space. “I dunno how he got the mouse down there, though. Must be a hole somewhere to crawl under from. Wasn’t even what was wrong. The damn thing just knocked a cog loose when it fell.”

“Right,” Merlin says as the last plank falls into place and Arthur thumps it so the whole thing shifts and clicks back to solid floor.  

“I should probably tell Elyan about the hole Clunker’s getting in, but I bet he loves it under there. Nice and warm.”

“Hi, Arthur,” Merlin says, once Arthur’s rubbed the worst of the dirt off himself with a clean rag.  

Arthur looks at him and Merlin leans in for a kiss. Arthur’s bandaged hand touches Merlin’s face, then draws back quickly.  

“I’m filthy,” Arthur says, “you have smut on your chin.”

Merlin unwinds the dirty rags from Arthur’s hand and they wash up in the sink, Arthur nattering away about why Elyan has a sink in his living-room (which seems to have a lot to do with the fact that Arthur spent a lot of time here at one point, he thinks, and probably tried building a lot of things. Merlin thinks the doorbell and rising step are probably his).  

“I have a kind of favour to ask you,” Merlin says, once they’re sat on the sofa with tea, Elyan vanishing off upstairs to try and find his cat.  

“Okay,” Arthur says.

“I want you to meet someone. But it might get you into trouble, might put you in danger, and might… well, it would be dangerous for anyone and everyone you care anything for.”

“Just you,” Arthur say, “only you, Merlin.”

“What about Elyan?”

“He’s… El’s just El. He’s someone else… Important to someone else. I don’t know.”

“Okay. I don’t want you to say yes, Arthur. I want you to think about it. I would be using your face as a bargaining chip, to get information out of someone dangerous. I would be using you.”

“Will it help?”

“There are other ways of getting the information.”

“I want to meet your friend.”

“He’s not my friend. He’s a dangerous man who has something I want. Or, rather, has access to someone I want to meet.”

Arthur doesn’t seem to understand, and asks a lot of questions about Merlin’s ‘friend’. Merlin decides to wait four days before asking Arthur again, turning up to Arthur’s rooms uninvited for the second time. This time Arthur’s in, sitting under the table with a blanket wrapped around him. He looks doleful when Merlin clambers through the window.  

“I’m ill,” Arthur says, holding out a hand for Merlin to drag him out from his den by.  

Merlin realises that not only is Arthur wrapped in a blanket, he’s surrounded by them and sat on them. He tugs Arthur out and Arthur gets slowly to his feet.  

“You’re sick?” Merlin asks, automatically reaching to touch Arthur’s forehead, checking for fever, then feeling his neck for swollen glands, both of which Arthur submits to.  

“I am,” Arthur says.

“You don’t have a fever, nothing’s swollen. Headache? Sore throat? Nausea?”

“I’m tired. And my head hurts. And I’m bored! Can we go see your friend today?”

Merlin thinks about it, then he examines Arthur more thoroughly before deciding that Arthur’s ‘illness’ is just boredom and a plea for attention and sends Gwaine a message. He uses a courier and sends a small parcel to Gili, who has a chain thing going on that should work safely enough. Merlin watches the courier trot away on his horse, Arthur wrapped around him from behind.  

“It’ll take a while,” Merlin says.  

“Do we wait for an answer?”

“No,” Merlin says, checking his watch. “We give it half an hour, then set off. It’ll take a while to get there. You’re going to need to change.”

Arthur beams at him and goes to get a disguise. Merlin has never seen a grown person get so enthusiastic about dressing up, and he almost feels bad when he makes Arthur wear plain clothes and simply mutters a small spell to change the colour of his hair. Arthur wants a beard, moustache, circus performer clothes, a changed nose, all sorts of things.  

“This is fine,” Merlin says, “let’s go.”

He leads Arthur on a goose chase for a while, dropping into a tea shop, getting the train out to a bad part of town and dropping into a pub to play cards and scam a few people, riding the trains for a bit before putting on his mask and going to another pub, then taking them round the walls, walking the tracks, before jumping onto a coupling, tugging Arthur up after him, and climbing onto the roof to ride the train back into the city. Arthur’s silent most of the way, but when they’re on the trains he’s curious. On the long ride back to the city Merlin almost loses him to the engine, Arthur trying to crawl away to ‘increase efficiency’ and ‘make it go faster’. Merlin distracts him by telling him a story about a flying machine, a stupid kids’ thing that has Arthur wide eyed, then narrow eyed and thoughtful.  

Arthur’s still caught up in calculations and designs, thinking about his little metal birds and train engines, different things that fly and the mathematics involved in it, the movement of the air, the heat, when they reach the part of the city they need. Merlin leads them quickly through the streets, because being masked here draws more attention than it does on the outskirts. People watch him, still idly and without much interest, but they notice and they watch. When they get close to the city a guard demands to see Merlin’s face and Merlin has to mutter a glamour to change his appearance, which leaves a tiny puff of magic in the air that has him nervous. He gets to keep his mask, though, and they reach Gwaine’s mansion without further incident.  

Gwaine ushers them upstairs to a big library and then sends his maid out to buy a long list of things, frazzled stress rolling off him, shouting about a party and guests and how dusty the house is. When the maid’s gone Gwaine wanders back into the library and grins.  

“This is the face?” Gwaine asks, then laughs. “Really?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, a bit taken aback, “he’s important to me.”

Gwaine frowns, then, but doesn’t say anything else, just waves a hand.  

“You look different in a dress,” Arthur says, suddenly.  

Gwaine looks as surprised as Merlin does. They both stare at Arthur.  

“You recognise me?” Gwaine asks, fearful.  

“Masks hardly hide the way you walk, or the hair, or the voice,” Arthur scoffs.  

“I forget,” Gwaine says, “that you’re not dumb.”

“I’m lost,” Merlin says.  

“Oh, for- look, you’re so far in your drowning, Emrys, if you’d just show me your face I could actually- fuck this,” Gwaine says, patience snapping, getting up and striding the length of the room. “I will not accept Arthur’s face as collateral for Perce. You’ll have to pay a higher price than some mysterious bugger you found on the street, however much you think you might be friends with him.”

“I’m not friends with him,” Merlin says, quietly, “it’s not friendship.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Arthur says, proudly, knitting their fingers together. “Can we meet Percy, now?”

“Wait,” Merlin says. “Who is Gwaine? I mean, why do you know him?”

“He comes and gives me things to drink,” Arthur says, “when the headaches get bad.”

“Face, Emrys,” Gwaine says.  

“I have told you, I cannot do that!” Merlin snaps back, losing his temper.  

“Well, then, you can’t have Percy.”

“You stupid bugger,” Merlin says. “I don’t care! Argh!”

Merlin turns in a tight circle, then lashes out and throws a cushion at Gwaine’s head. Things are about to disintegrate from frustration to real anger, from bickering and confusion to real arguing, when a big man steps into the room, exuding calm. Arthur gets to his feet and goes over to him without hesitation, face breaking into relief. Merlin thinks Arthur must know this guy, too, but then Arthur introduces himself.  

“Gwaine,” the new arrival says, “stop it. Emrys, I am Percival.”

“Percival the gentle knight,” Arthur says, “you grew up a farmer and fell in with bandits, you lost your family and became an errant.”

“I’m no knight.”

“You will be. I know Lancelot,” Arthur says.  Percival smiles, wistful.  

“He was lost long ago.”

“I found him.”

“Look,” Merlin says, breaking in, “I just needed…"

But what is it that he did need? Mordred had just asked him to make contact, nothing more. He knows how to play this, he's made contact and set up meetings before. He has a script to work from. He has things to offer. He knows this. He sighs and sits in a comfy chair, suddenly unbearably exhausted.  

"No, Arthur," Merlin says. "He can find Lancelot, but we can't get him yet. Percival, knight or not, Mordred wants a meeting set up. I don't know what it is you have that's useful, I do not know what he wants you to do. I have no information. That's the point. You say I'm in so deep, Gwaine, but I am in just as deep or shallow as any of us. None of us know."

"When Morgana left Uther, she took certain people with her,” Percival says. “including Gwaine Cuchulain, Lord of Orkney; myself; your Sir Leon; Elyan, brother to Gwenevere. We are a balance to Mordred's revolution. There are many sides to every story.

 

“Mordred and those who have suffered beyond endurance in the ghettos, hunted down. Morgana and those who demand change, who have suffered in other ways. Emrys and those hidden, who work in the shadows. We are the duds, non-magic people who still want to help, often in high or useful positions. Mordred will bring revolution, Morgana will bring war. We will bring politics, fighting, skill, whatever we have. I do not know what the hidden will bring."

"Who has the plan? Who is puppeteer?" Merlin asks.  

"Your sovereign, your empress. Morgana, second in line to hereditary powers. The aristocracy who rule this city and the lands that make up Camelot voted that she would take Uther's place. They have not overturned that, since her betrayal," Gwaine says.  “It is still in place.”

"Second in line?" Merlin asks. "You mean the boy who was meant to be killed. The simple... Lord in heaven, you mean...?"

Merlin doesn't speak it aloud, but Gwaine's eyes dart to Arthur, and Merlin's world tilts around him. No wonder, no wonder. Everything falls into places, questions he's had for so long suddenly need no answers.

"Why does Mordred need Percival?" Merlin asks.  

"Perce has certain connections Mordred wants to make use of," Gwaine says, sounding as tired as Merlin feels. "We would prefer not to use those connections. The men Mordred would call up make mercenaries seem like puppies."

"Give me someone else," Merlin says. "Someone else who can make similar connections. Mordred has lived in that hell-hole too long and will do anything. A means to an end he is far too desperate to see."

"We are all too desperate," Percival says, gently. "I will go to him. This is my part."

"No," Arthur says. Everyone turns to him, and Gwaine curses under his breath. Arthur has that stubborn look about him that Merlin recognises. "Sir Percival, you are _my_ knight. Sir Leon the loyal knight, Sir Elyan the wise knight, Sir Percival the gentle knight, Sir Gwaine the strong knight, Sir Lancelot the knight of the lake. My knights. My insignia are worn within my skin instead of on my cloak, but I am no less lord than Morgana, I am no less able by the laws of this land to knight than your emperor, Uther."

"What about Merlin? Sir Merlin the magic knight?" Gwaine says. "Arthur, this-"

"Sir Merlin, knight of the heart. He is not mine," Arthur says, softly, eyes glazing over. "I do not knight him. That is for another."

"God damn it. She is _not_ supposed to visit him!" Gwaine says, in a burst of rare anger. "She is not supposed to see him. Arthur, you cannot knight us, you cannot draw on the land like that. The magic of that will destroy your mind! You must drink this, now."

"Yes," Arthur agrees, sadly. "She has to visit me, though, Gwaine. She must."

"Love has no place in war," Gwaine says.  

"There is no place for anything else, no other reason to fight, no other motive great enough to induce such harm," Arthur says. "I know for what you fight, sir Gwaine, do not try to trick me with your words."

"I always forget how smart you are," Gwaine says, pressing his forehead to Arthur's as Arthur drinks from a vial. "They called you the simple prince, but that is not correct. You are golden. The golden prince, our light. Our bright intelligence. God I love you. This isn't fair."

"There is a place for love in war, but there is no place for 'fair'. No justice, no right way. There is only suffering," Arthur says, voice a hoarse whisper. "I cannot bring peace, Morgana cannot bring peace, our only recourse, she says. The only answer. I do not want to let go. I do not want to fight. I do not want to lose you all. But she is right- there will be no peace while the land runs red with the blood and ash and bitter corruption. We must gut the pig who gluts it with such things, cleanse it with his blood, and let the rain come down in a torrent."

"Let go, let go. I've got you," Gwaine says.  

Arthur goes docile and quiet, leaning into Gwaine for a moment. Then he looks around, humming, and pads over to a table, looking through some books there. He draws things out of his pockets and starts tinkering with pieces of machinery. Gwaine sits next to Merlin with a great sigh.  

"So. You love my boyfriend," Merlin says .

"Not that way," Gwaine says. "We grew up together. When he was born, Uther discovered that Nimueh had worked the magics in such a way that meant that Arthur is her son. She sired him. It was never Ygraine who was sterile. And yet, he is born of Uther and Ygraine, he is hereditary heir. Albion's earth accepted him. Uther ordered that it be put about that Arthur was buried with his mother, but you cannot bury an heir, not without sending the earth into revolt.

“Secretly the boy was brought to my mother, my family. We nursed and grew together. When he turned eleven, and it became clear what Arthur was like, Uther had him taken and locked away, in that room, where he remains to this day. The simple prince could not protest his treatment, and nobody else dared speak for him. Until Morgana did."

"Jesus," Merlin says.  

"Arthur is not broken, or damaged, or simple. He's just different."

"He told me he can't tell what's real, that he's lived a thousand lives."

"Yes. Nimueh drew a soul through time. She could create so much from magic but not everything. Soul magic, have you heard of it?"

"Yes," Merlin says. Though he hasn't heard much. Gaius won't let him learn about it, afraid that his magic will take to it and test things out.  

"Arthur's mind cannot stick to the right time. He sees things in too many dimensions."

"Why does he have to forget?"

"He is incredibly powerful, but he cannot control it in any way. He doesn't need a cure, but he does needs help to manage things, and Uther refuses to allow that. He locks him up and nothing more."

"Gwaine," Percival says. "Am I to go to Mordred? We should get moving, if so."

"Arthur is right," Merlin says. "You are his knight. If he is truly hereditary heir to Albion, then there is no helping it. He has already knighted you, simply by choosing."

"Really?" Gwaine asks.

"Yes. There is no controlling that kind of magic, and with how stubborn Arthur is? I doubt anyone can truly tell him 'no'. Not to make it stick, not if he wants the answer to be 'yes'. I do know that much about him.

 

“I don't understand all of this. Lancelot, I do not know who he is or how he fits in. Mordred says he is a bridge between mortals and the sidhe. Which means he is not lost, merely out of time. It is impossible to keep track from places like that. There is a chance that he will come back and turn to dust. Unless he is called. Arthur, it seems, can call him."

"I can't go to Mordred if I am a knight?" Percival asks.  

"Lord, no. Mordred's wards cannot distinguish between Uther's knights and Arthur's. You are no use to that revolution," Merlin says. "Mordred brings revolution, Morgana war, you bring legitimacy and political power. And scary mercenaries, apparently, which I am pretending to forget about right now.

 

“What do I bring? What I want, all I want, is peace. I, like Arthur, cannot make peace. It is not something I can force, or fight for, or demand. So I bring revenge, and terror. That is what I can bring. I choose peace, though, if it is possible."

"I will fight for you, Emrys," Percival says. "Or not fight. I am yours."

"Me too," Gwaine says. "I also want peace. I had thought Morgana our best hope, but you... I, too, am yours. I have been Arthur's for so long, it hardly seems like a choice. He chose Morgana, I followed. He chose you, I follow again."

"What do we do, then?" Merlin asks.  

"Merlin," Arthur says, turning from the table.  

Merlin freezes. His mask is still in place, and here he is Emrys, and Arthur...  

"You cannot name me," Merlin hisses.  

"Oh, he can," Gwaine says. "That is what we do now, _Merlin_. We trust. I have revealed everything to you, you must return the favour."

"Knowing me is as good as a death sentence, for you, for my friends, my family."

"You have no friends or family, only assets and weaknesses," Gwaine says.  

"Merlin," Arthur says, more insistently.

"Fine," Merlin says. "Merlin Ambrosia, at your service."

"Merlin!" Arthur says, stamping his foot, demanding. Merlin turns to him, away from Gwaine. "Lancelot is back."

 

**

 

Lancelot, it turns out, is as beautiful as Arthur described. Arthur takes Merlin and Percival to his rooms, sending Gwaine to fetch Morgana. He rummages in a cupboard of broken machinery until he finds the wooden puppet, which he sets in a chair, then he goes about preparing tea and coffee and putting out mugs and cleaning up, humming to himself, ignoring Percival and Merlin.  

"Gwaine's told me a little about him," Percival murmurs. "I've never met him, though. I didn't expect this."

"Tea parties with dolls?" Merlin asks.

There's a knock, and Arthur turns sharply, gesturing them under the table. Percival is large. Merlin usually fits comfortably, but with both of them it is laughable, comic. Merlin covers his mouth to keep from laughing and Percival tucks himself into a smaller shape. The door opens, and three dresses sweep in, deep, rich material.  

"You can come out, Emrys.”

They climb back out from under the table, in time to see Gwaine and a beautiful woman, recognisably Morgana Pendragon, though she hides behind a glamour, sweeping veils off their faces. Morgana, Merlin realises, is the old woman who visited Arthur before. Her glamour is the same, but younger. The third woman is Gwenevere, unveiled, hair piled high with jewels, skin darker than she is depicted in most official pictures.  

"Lancelot?" Gwenevere asks, hurrying over to touch the puppet.  

"Mm, yes, he's in there," Morgana says.  

She waves her hand, with a flick of her wrist, and Merlin feels the power rolling off her. The air shimmers, and a knight in full, gleaming metal appears, walking towards them. As he gets closer he becomes clearer, until he's standing in the room. The insignia on his shoulder are the same as the ones on all of Arthur's knights. Arthur lets out a joyful cry and flings himself into the man's arms.  

"Hello Arthur," Lancelot says. "My king."

Lancelot pats Arthur's back, gives him a hug, then gets down on his knee, bowing. Arthur laughs, tugging him back up to stand, reaching for Merlin's hand. 


	6. Chapter 6

Gaius finds the words. Merlin's sitting by the river with Arthur, listening to Arthur rambling on about his latest excursion with Lancelot. Lancelot seems to take Arthur with him when he does things for Morgana. No one's telling Merlin much about that, except Arthur who usually just lists what they eat and where they've slept. Gaius comes himself, on horse-back. Merlin stares at him.  

"No time," Gaius pants. "Come on."

Merlin gets to his feet, unsure. Arthur gets up too, packing away the blanket they’ve been sprawled over. He starts Tilly up.  

"Go with him, come with me, but do it now!" Gaius says, turning the horse and already heading back for the city, leaving Merlin to clamber into Tilly before she rolls away.  

They beat Gaius to the shop. Arthur leaves Tilly a little ways away, and they walk. Merlin takes them in through the back, and Arthur gets distracted by the dishwashing machine, crouching to take a look at the mechanism. Gaius comes barrelling through and nearly trips over him.  

"I found the words," Gaius says, holding Merlin's shoulder for balance. "Is this your friend?"

"Yeah, this is Arthur," Merlin says.  

"Come through to the office, I'll teach you."

Arthur trails after them, settling lying on the sofa in the office, playing with a piece of what Merlin is sure is the dish-washer.  

"This spell," Arthur says, when Gaius is done explaining. "This is magic that means Merlin can do more magic."

"Yes," Gaius says.  

"Then Merlin can kill the emperor," Arthur says, cheerfully.

Merlin opens his mouth to explain that no he cannot, but then he shuts it and exchanges a look with Gaius. Because, actually, he _can_ kill the emperor. With the aristocracy behind Morgana's rule, with the Morrigan riding, with the revolt that's already stirring in the ghetto, Uther's death will not be the same cataclysmic event it would have been last month.  

"We need to get him out of the city," Merlin says, at the same time as Gaius says "you need to get Arthur out of the city."

"Where shall I take him?" Merlin asks, hurrying around the office, pulling books and scrolls and things down and shoving them into a pack Gaius hands him.  

"Take him to Hunith. She knows how to hide someone," Gaius says.  

Merlin nods, and rushes around the house, gathering the supplies they need. He comes to a halt in front of Gaius, less than five minutes later, ready to leave. Gaius looks him over.  

"I'll take Elyan Smith with me," Merlin says, softly. "He will protect Arthur with his life."

"He cannot rule."

"No. But he is a piece, in this war. He is a prize. He can weight one side or another. He is so many people's weakness. Mine, Morgana's, Lancelot's, Gwaine's. Our golden Prince."

"He is like Emrys," Gaius murmurs. "He brings hope to those who follow him."

"He does."

Arthur comes out, clutching a book of dragon lore to his chest. He refuses to let it go, and there's no time, so they end up taking it with them. They ride Tilly out to Elyan's house, and then Elyan hurries them out the back and onto horses. He leads, and they ride straight out of the city, under the wall and through one of the smaller, traders' gates.  

They ride all day, Elyan setting their course once Merlin's told him where Ealdor lies. He takes them through forests, away from the river, and at nightfall they come to the approach of an industry city. Elyan takes them to a small house, right on the outskirts, one of a workers’ settlement. The horses they leave in a stable at an inn a mile or so off. Elyan knocks, and waits. The door's answered by a child, who stares mutely up at them for a long time.  

"Ah, Elyan. I was not expecting to see you again," a voice comes from behind the boy, a man appearing in the dim light.  

"Alator," Elyan says.  

They're let in, and given something hot and sweet to drink, and something to eat. They're left alone in a small room, Alator and the boy withdrawing elsewhere.  

 

"They're druids," Elyan whispers. "We helped them escape Camelot. They'll help us, for tonight at least."

"We can reach Ealdor by tomorrow night, if we start early," Merlin whispers back.  

"And then I will build my flying machine," Arthur says, yawning.  

They start before the sun, the next morning, Elyan waking Merlin. It takes both of them to wake Arthur, and he's still half asleep even on horse-back. He keeps nearly falling fully asleep and sliding off. He wakes up properly at about mid-day, and starts singing. He's still singing when they reach Ealdor, and it gathers them attention. Merlin's uncomfortable under the scrutiny, until he recognises one set of eyes. He reins his horse in and jumps down, laughing.  

"Look what the cat dragged in," Will says, grinning.  

"Missed you, too!" Merlin yells, flinging himself into Will's arms, laughing until he's crying.  

Will snorts and teases him, but when he pulls away, he has to rub at his own eyes too. Merlin hits him affectionately, then realises what he just did and laughs again, turning to locate Arthur. Arthur's stood next to his horse, watching Merlin with avid attention.  

"Will, this is Arthur," Merlin says. "He's going to be staying with my mother for a bit, as is his friend, Elyan Smith."

"Good, the village needs a farrier," Will says, looking Elyan up and down, ignoring Arthur after a cursory glance. "I'll come with you. Hunith's working on the farm today, she won't be back till late. I can play host. Come on."

Will warms to Arthur. When Arthur trails him around the house and garden, asking him questions, and most especially when Arthur happily does the dishes and helps prepare dinner, and promises to have a look at the broken seed cultivator Will's complaining about. Will sits with him while the food cooks, telling him about farming and growing things, Arthur's eyes wide with wonder.  

"He's such a child, sometimes," Merlin murmurs to Elyan.  

"He isn't. He just has an ability to find joy in simple things. Or rather, he sees the complexities in things the rest of us dismiss as simple and unimportant," Elyan says.  

"But when he looks at people like that," Merlin says, pointing at Arthur gazing at Will with rapt attention, "and when he takes such joy in what are effectively toys, I am forcefully reminded of a young child."

 

"He makes his own choices, Merlin. He always has, despite everyone's attempts at curtailing it, despite everyone telling him that he cannot possibly. He chose you. And so did the rest of us. Gwaine follows Arthur anywhere, but he knew you before he knew Arthur had chosen you, and he trusted you. We trust you, and choose you. You, Merlin. Not Emrys, not magic, not Arthur's boyfriend. Just you. Just Merlin."

"That was quite the speech," Merlin says, a little weakly.  

"He's the wise knight," Arthur says, coming over, Will behind him. "Your Dianthus is taking me back into the garden, before the light goes all the way."

"Dianthus?" Merlin asks.  

"Sweet William," Will says, sounding very grumpy about it. "I told him not to call me that, so he called me 'Dianthus'."

Merlin laughs, getting up to give Arthur a kiss. He and Elyan wander out into the garden, too, and sit on the step to watch Arthur as Will teaches him the different plants there. Merlin knows when Will grudgingly points out the Sweet William flowers, because Arthur makes a delighted sound and tackles Will to the ground, rolling around like puppies. Merlin looks up from them, and sees his mother, and starts to cry again, overwhelmed. He gets up and embraces her, clinging.  

He leaves in the morning. He leaves Elyan there, with Will and his mother and Arthur, leaves them to the joy of the open sky and the hard work and the fields. He gallops back to the city, pausing only to switch horses, and arrives before the sun sets. He goes to Gwaine's, instead of Gaius'.  

"Lancelot will come with me," he says. "Morgana will bring her army, and Mordred will start the riots, and the chaos of the city should allow Sir Leon to get us into the palace. I will kill the emperor Uther Pendragon, and Morgana Pendragon will take his place. Do we agree to this?"

"It is not peace, but I agree," Gwaine says.  

"I, too, agree," Percival says. "Gwaine and I will work on your exit."

"I agree," Morgana says. "I, Amhain, agree. The Morrigan will ride."

"Then we are in agreement," Merlin says. "Uther Pendragon will die tomorrow night."

"And Camelot will be free," Morgana says.  

 

**

 

It isn't until later that Merlin realises his mistake. It isn't until he has taken the life of the man he has always considered a tyrant, and seen the fear in his eyes, the weakness, the exhausted grief, that he realises that even a tyrant is human. It isn't until he is stood right in the centre of the kingdom, the king dying, that he realises that he is not the queen, or the bishop, or a knight, but merely a pawn. The magic leaving him, the life leaving Uther, Merlin sees the portrait of Ygraine with a baby Arthur, and beside it, a portrait of Arthur grown. Uther's body at his feet, Merlin turns and sees Edwin Muirden in the doorway.  

"Yes, he loved his son," Edwin muses, coming into the room and circling Merlin. "Weak old fool."

"Locking someone away is not love," Merlin says.  

"Oh? Who are you, to question that? You're one of Mordred's rats. Raised in the gutter. Left in a ghetto to rot."

Merlin remembers Gaius' spell, and laughs as he realises Edwin has no idea who he is. Merlin raises his hand, ready to take a second life, but he doesn't have to. Lancelot comes in, with a blade tempered by dragon's breath, and drives it right through Edwin.

"We have to go. We have been betrayed," Lancelot says.

"By who? To who?" Merlin asks, gesturing to the dead Emperor at his feet.  

"The Morrigan. Threefold. Morgana, Gwenevere, and Morgause. They are wreaking havoc and slaughter over the city. We forgot the three. Morgana never made any promises, only Amhain did. Amhain is not the Morrigan. We need to leave, now."

"I can fight them."

"Her. Merlin, she is centuries old! She has the power of a story told over and over until it is real! She is not a magician, she is magic itself."

"And so am I," Merlin says. "You follow Merlin, so do the others. Find them. I and Mordred will free this city. The Morrigan is right, though, Lancelot. It will take blood to cleanse it. So much blood. Uther's will not suffice. Take the others, ride to Ealdor. Bring me Arthur."

"Merlin."

"I will offer him as sacrifice. It will cleanse the city. Power corrupts, Lancelot. You will do as I say!" Merlin calls all his power into his voice, and Lancelot's eyes go cloudy.  

He will bring Arthur. He has no choice. Merlin turns, draws Lancelot's blade from Edwin's body, and strides through the palace, calling Mordred to him. He bursts out of the doors into the pleasure gardens. He kneels, pressing his palms to the ground, and calls magic out of the earth, draws it up into himself, turning the garden wild as he drags it into himself with each breath. He drags the earth bare, taking every memory of blood spilt and ash fallen, calling all that anger and despair and sorrow into him.  

When he straightens, he is dripping with blood, blood spilt by the Pendragons. He is bleeding, too, as other's pain pierces him. He tips his head back and yells, letting his power ride through him, tearing his throat, turning to words he barely knows but feels. There's an answering roar, in the back of his mind. He wonders what he has awoken, but not for long: Mordred is coming. Merlin turns his head and sees him. Silver sparking off him, he comes. He bows to Merlin, down on a knee.

"Power corrupts," Merlin whispers, gripping Mordred's chin and forcing his head up. "Give me yours, little druid."

"I will not," Mordred says.  

"Oh yes, you will," Merlin says, and yanks his hand away.  

It comes away silver, strands mixing with the crimson of the blood. Merlin turns his hand this way and that, examining it.  

"I was never your Emrys, Mordred," Merlin says, still whispering, whispering through Mordred to all Mordred's people. "I was never Emrys. Emrys is a figure bound by destiny and myth, and I was but a man. Emrys is for revenge and death, and I was looking for peace. Yet here is war, and here is earth waiting for its blood payment, for its revenge. I have spilt blood. Here she comes, the Morrigan."

Merlin stands up straight, then stands up again, rising, growing, shifting. He makes himself from blood and silver and gold, weaving himself out of the magic he has stolen. He builds Emrys from the earth and then calls to the elements, demanding more. He draws down fire, cradles it in his arms, and waits.  

The Morrigan comes. She is preceded by crows, and by a wolf, and then she is there, on the wide cement road. Threefold, Merlin had been told, and threefold she is. Three times the size of a man, three heads twisted together, magic folded into her over and over and over. Merlin smiles.  

It takes him hours to unknit her, to turn her into her parts again, to bind her. They whirl, the city twisting about them, magic turning the sky red and purple and black. His magic is deep thrumming gold, veined with Mordred’s silver. Hers is white. Such a pure, untainted white that it’s not so much colour as all colours, all light.

 

The earth rings with their battle, the sky cries with it, cloud and storm and rain and lightening, elements turning to their will. The Morrigan’s animals are teeth sunk into his arm, biting, yelping. Emrys has his own nature, though. His plants and trees and all the things Merlin thinks of as peaceful, forged into weaponry, curling and stinging, piercing, poisoning the Morrigan’s flesh. The snap of carnivorous plants take the Morrigan’s insects, the bite of thick thorns takes paws, the oils from plants thickened and spilt over wings downs birds.

 

There is no end to Emrys’ power, but the Morrigan is stories made real through belief and there is nothing more powerful than words, than stories, than the rough uncaring course of narrative. The threads of telling woven over and over into her, folding in the magic. Her creatures can be taken, her flesh damaged, but her core is unending. Emrys battles on, touching that core, feeling around it, finding the ends of the threads. Finding the stories, the myths. The legend of her. Other people’s minds all bound together to make her heart.

 

He knows it, at last, knows her. He knows each of the thousands of minds, each of the hundreds of years, every moment, thread, and knit of her. He stands still and calls on the heavens. They open, and he uses each drop of rain to wash her story away, to build new legends. It’s enough. She’s enough undone to bind. Emrys has her bound.

 

Lancelot rides up through the city, Arthur seated in front of him, Arthur's knights at his back. Mordred is knelt where Merlin left him, Mordred's people have formed a ring around them. The Morrigan is bound to the earth by creepers and roots, three, feet touching. Merlin stands, waiting.

"Lancelot," Elyan says. "Where have you brought us?"

"I have brought the golden prince," Lancelot intones.  

Arthur gets down and walks to Merlin, head held high, not looking at anyone else.  

"What have you done?" Elyan says. "What have you done, Merlin?"

"Blood will appease Albion," Merlin says. "But it must be your blood, Arthur."

"I give it," Arthur says, meeting Merlin's eyes. "I give it willingly. I trust you."

Arthur kneels, lowers his head, bares his neck. Merlin draws Lancelot's dragon-forged sword, and brings the blade to Arthur's skin, pressing gently.  

"Sacrifice of Abraham, of father's son, to appease the blood feud of land and Pendragon," Merlin says. "Albion, take what is yours. Leave me mine."

He presses, then raises the blade. He hesitates, and hesitates. Power corrupts absolutely, he reminds himself. It's not enough, though. It's never going to be enough. He lowers the blade a bare inch. Mordred snaps upright, like a snake, hand gripping Merlin's wrist, fingers digging in. Merlin feels the silver magic wrenched back out of him, the blade taken, and he falls to his knees. He looks into Arthur's eyes, as Mordred plunges the blade into Arthur's breast. Merlin does not look away. Arthur remains kneeling, as he bleeds. Merlin struggles up and hurries to him, holding him, red stained. Arthur rests his head gently on Merlin's shoulder and sighs.  

"I couldn't make my machine fly,” Arthur murmurs.

"Never mind," Merlin says, voice breaking, stroking Arthur's hair. His hand leaves blood, staining the blond. "Never mind."

"I found something else," Arthur says, voice so weak. "In my book. Needed my book. Merlin, I had my book."

"I don't understand," Merlin says, weeping openly as Arthur becomes heavy in his arms.  

"Balinor Ambrosia is the last of the lords of the air," Arthur whispers.  

"My father," Merlin says. "I don't... what is a lord of the air?"

"I," Arthur says, ignoring that, stopping to gasp for breath. "I was sired by Nimueh of the lake, by Sidhe magic, but my father was Uther Pendragon and my mother was Ygraine DuBois. No one but the dragons know that kind of binding. I am like your blade. Forged in dragon's breath. I read my book."

"Well done," Merlin whispers, understanding. "You and I are dragon made, aren't we?"

"You and I," Arthur sighs out.  

Merlin tips his head back and screams, forcing the sky, the air, drawing power from there. He never dared take the sky before, but he does so now, and he learns the words as it rides through him. He calls for help, and hears the rumble in the back of his mind. He demands it wake, and then he hears the beat of great wings.  

"I am threefold," Arthur whispers. "My blood will bind the Morrigan."

"Yes," Merlin says, tears still soaking his face. "I thought it would. I'm so sorry. I thought it the only way. I didn't know how to do this without you."

"I come willingly," Arthur says. "I die willingly."

"Lancelot," Merlin says, desperation making him curt. "You can summon the sidhe. Do it. Now. Mordred, do you remember Tristan du Bois? You wanted to summon him, once, a long time ago. You wanted him to challenge Uther Pendragon. Can you still do that?"

"Yes," Mordred says.  

"Do it now. Sir Leon, Uther's body lies in his bed chamber. Bring it to me. Take Percival with you, you should manage it between you," Merlin says. "Gwaine. Come here."

Merlin passes Arthur into Gwaine's arms and gets unsteadily to his feet. Elyan is knelt by Gwenevere, hand on her stomach, eyes closed.  

"Elyan Smith, on your feet," Merlin says, as gently as he has the time for.  

"What am I to do?" Elyan asks.  

"Find Gaius. Tell him he needs to bring me to the book of the dead."

Elyan nods, and runs for the horses, mounting and galloping away. Merlin paces a circle, encompassing Arthur, Gwaine, Mordred, and Lancelot, generous with the space, pressing shapes into the earth and bearing them deeper and deeper, treading them again and again. He weaves his enchantments, using the elemental magic of Emrys, relying on the words from the book of the dead to shield the city from the backlash of the spell.  

Leon and Percival come, bearing Uther's body. They lay it down beside Arthur and Gwaine, and Mordred raises his arms, pulling dust up into smoke which coalesces into the body of a black knight. Lancelot turns, eyes red, shoulders straight. Merlin needs a last element, but he can begin without it.  

"Mordred, Uther must become part of the earth. You knight needs to..." Merlin trails off.  

The knight is already moving, raising its blade. It comes down in a great arc, cleaving the sky, and Merlin's enchantment catches it on fire. It cuts Uther in two, spilling the last of his blood.  

"He answers to you, Emrys," Mordred says, getting back onto his knees and bowing his head.  

The wing beat in the back of Merlin's mind becomes audible in the real world, and Merlin lifts his head. A dragon is wheeling above them, white wings spread against the dying sun. Merlin calls her down, into his circle. Merlin reaches out and finds Elyan, nearly upon them. He calls the book to him and it comes, falling into the circle, right into Merlin's hands. Merlin flicks, the pages turning bloody like Arthur's hair.  

"It's here, it's here," Merlin mutters, and then he finds it.  

He cannot understand the language, but he knows this is what he needs. He understands the magic. Outside the lead lined walls, outside his wards, the books speaks to him, power leaking from it like water. Merlin soaks it up and speaks the language, parsing it out on his tongue before saying it aloud. He weaves the blood of Uther into the earth, then calls on the power of the sidhe and the dragons, finding their echo in Arthur. He calls on Tristan, on Uther, and uses their blood to trace Ygraine and Nimueh. Then he pulls all the threads together, tugging until it knits.  

There's an explosion of white light, and the earth swims in blood for a moment, and then Merlin's circle is broken. Lancelot's eyes return to their bright blue, then roll back into his head, and he collapses. Merlin lets the book drop. He turns to the dragon, first, and she bows her head to him.  

"Merlin, last of my blood," she says. "You called, and I came."

"Aithusa," Merlin says, finding the name waiting for him. "Daughter of Kilgharrah. I thank you."

"Arthur is the once and future king. His life is mine to protect," Aithusa says.

"He will never rule," Merlin says.  

"Those who choose not to rule are still sometimes king," Aithusa says.

 

“I have used the spell that Kilgharrah wrought, to hide the city from this magic. The earth will take it, now, and it will appease the feud. But I have need of you,” Merlin says.

 

“You are lord of the air, you may command me.”

 

“I want to ask. I prefer to ask.”

 

“Then ask,” She says, bowing her head again.

 

“I used dragon lore and I used my blood, I think I may have used dragon magicks. I know nothing of that, or not enough. I understand so little. Can you tell me?” Merlin says.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Seek the damage of it, then. Find where I have been mistaken. You can correct my faults?”

 

“I can.”

 

“If you would do so, then,” Merlin says.  

 

She beats her wings and takes off, rising back to the sky. Merlin bends for Lancelot, pressing his hand to the breast plate, reviving him. Lancelot sits up, groggy, and Merlin asks him to call someone for him. Lancelot is weary, but he looks at Merlin with more trust than Merlin deserves, and his eyes burn red.

 

“Mab, queen of all the fears in men’s hearts,” Lancelot announces, kneeling, sword point in the ground, head bowed.

 

“Emrys,” Mab says, crouched, grinning.

 

“I have used the magicks of the sidhe,” Merlin says.

 

“Yes, we did notice. You fear it.”

 

“You know I do. This is Albion, land of King Arthur, the once and future king, heir to Igraine and Nimueh and Uther, to the magic of the earth. He is destined to return always to you, his soul drawn from Avalon by Nimueh’s magic. You would do well to look to him,” Merlin says.

 

“White dragon, great hope, this is hers,” Mab says. “We only interest ourselves when he is without his shell.”

 

“This is Sidhe magic knit with dragon lore and earth magic, Emrys’ binding, Morigan’s blood, feud and family. It is not his shell that my magic will look to, if it breaks my bonds.”

 

Mab vanishes and Lancelot falls face-first into the dust. Merlin crouches, turning him onto his back, and Lancelot whispers that the Sidhe will check, as Aithusa will. It is enough knowledge for Merlin, for the moment. He cannot be certain that they will, they are the Sidhe and look only to their interests and to delight. But he has given them enough worry, he thinks. Just enough of a hint that they’ll check.

 

Merlin turns to Arthur, but only long enough to make sure he has stopped bleeding. He withdraws the blade from Arthur's breast and presses his magic until it heals Arthur, just enough. He has never been good at healing. Mordred will do more. Merlin turns to him next.  

"I am sorry,” Merlin says. "I thought it the only way."

"As Emrys, you may take whatever you like from me," Mordred says, and bows, deep. Then he straightens. "As Merlin, if you do that again, I'll kick you in the bollocks."

"Please help him," Merlin says.  

"I cannot, but I will ask someone who can to come," Mordred says.  

Merlin turns again, to the figures of Morgana, Gwenevere, and Morgause, still bound on the ground. He withdraws their bindings, and they sit up, looking confused and sleepy.  

"Playing with the magic of Tir Na Nog will only lead to trouble," Merlin says. "You are not the Morrigan, you merely tried to call her. Through you, she would have wrought war upon the earth. She is not to be trifled with."

"I will answer for that," Morgause says, getting to her feet. "But I will also answer for the magic protecting Arthur, keeping him safe all these years. I will answer to helping Morgana escape Uther's grasp, and helping Gwenevere negotiate her place. I will answer to guiding Sir Leon to Arthur's door, and I will answer for Uther letting Arthur wander as he would. There is much you owe me for, Emrys. I beg your mercy on that count."

"Mine?" Merlin says. "Me? I don't have any... what? No. I'm not going to... Emrys is dead. He was never more than a figment of imagination. Those prophecies weren't true. I used him, the idea of him, but he was never real. I'm just Merlin, just a boy from the country, seeking my fortune."

"Then I knight thee," Morgause says, head held proudly. "Sir Merlin Ambrosia Emrys, Knight of the Heart, first of the empress' crow-legions, court sorcerer, dragon lord, and consort to the prince."

"I told you it was someone else's place," Arthur says, still resting in Gwaine's arms. "Who is the prince? Who gets to marry Merlin?"

"You, brother," Morgana says. "You are the prince. Albion chose you."

"Oh. Do I have to do things I don't want to do?" Arthur asks.  

"Nope," Gwaine says. "You can be like me. We can be the black sheep, bane of the aristocracy, and cause trouble."

"You, sir Gwaine, are going to begin rebuilding the city," Gwenevere says, taking her place on Morgana's left. "Sir Elyan, you are to advise the empress with me. Sir Leon, you are to be promoted to leading the empress’s troops, which we will endeavor not to call the crow-legions too often. Sir Percival, we are tasking you with care of Prince Arthur. He is yours to protect."

"I'm gonna build my flying machine, now that I'm not dead," Arthur says. "And we can make the water system better. Me and Merlin found some things in the dam. And I don't need to drink tea any more, do I, Amhain?"

"No. I will have my healers find real helps, not just fogs, for you. We won’t put them in teas. Perhaps tonics. Fouls tasting I’m sure. And you may call me Morgana again. The need for secrecy is passed."

"I think I quite like tea after all. Good. Percy and I will help Sir Gwaine," Arthur says.  

Then he faints.  


	7. Chapter 7

Merlin leaves the palace early. He’s been working long weeks, he feels justified taking off early for just one day. He walks freely through the city, now, his magic reaching out. It took him nearly a year to feel easy doing this, and it’s only now, nearly two years later, that he can do it without a sense of foreboding. He automatically keeps track of things that need rebuilding, money invested. It’s not quite his job, but Morgana uses him to gather information like this. 

 

He makes his way to the train station, and rides it out to Gaius’ shop. Gaius has new premises, but they’re still in the same part of the city. It’s a vibrant magic community, these days. It had always been, in secret, one of the more magic-heavy in the city, but now, with the new open-ness, it has thrived. Merlin removes his top hat, and his jacket. He hates being so formal, but for work he needs to be. The step of Gaius’ shop rises to meet him, like the one at Elyan’s, and a mat rolls out saying ‘welcome’, and when he opens the door, a bell plays a merry tune. 

 

“Hullo,” Arthur says, sat behind the counter, fiddling with some bit of machinery. “You’re early!”

 

“I am,” Merlin agrees, going to lean on the counter. 

 

“Gaius is in the back, playing with his books,” Arthur says. 

 

“What are you making?” Merlin asks. 

 

“I’m not sure,” Arthur says, frowning. “It’s something I found, from my old rooms. I can’t remember what it was going to be. I’m trying to work it out.”

 

“Is it upsetting?” Merlin asks. 

 

“No,” Arthur says, a smile lighting him up. “Gwaine came in earlier, drunk. He’s apparently gathering intelligence for the empress, but I think he was just drunk. He brought me a new map.”

 

“Where of this time? Where’s he been? He’s been gone ages.”

 

“Um, I don’t remember the name,” Arthur says.  “The one with the bad people.”

 

“There are lots of those.”

 

“Where Hunith lives,” Arthur says, brightening again. 

 

“Essetir,” Merlin says. “He was in Essetir?”

 

“Mm. Molly’s after the slavers,” Arthur says. 

 

“Molly?”

 

“Morgana. I’m testing it. I like it. She does not. Everyone wins,” Arthur says. “Now.”

 

He pulls goggles over his face, and lights a blow-torch. Merlin steps back, aware that this can mean things are about to explode. Nothing exciting happens, though, just a few sparks. Arthur removes the goggles, blows on the little device, and starts bouncing, like a puppy. 

 

“You remembered what it is,” Merlin says. 

 

“Yes! I was making a machine to get me more of that sweet frozen treat. Frozen honey-cream,” Arthur says, eyes closing, expression rapt. “Mm. This isn’t going to work, though. I got confused and thought I was making something else, so it’s not going to work. I’ll start again.”

 

“Until then, how about I take you for some?” Merlin says. “Skive off work early.”

 

“Alright. I’ll go get Gaius. He’s more likely to be good tempered if I tell him than if you do. He’s cross with you, you haven’t visited in too long”

  
Arthur slides off the stool before Merlin can mount a defence, and slips back through the door into the house. Merlin turns, back to the counter, and watches the busy street, the customers. The world isn’t perfect, there is still so much to build, to rebuild. Turning a society that hates magic into one that embraces and uses it is going to take time. There are still people who are committing atrocities against magicians. Now, though, it is a hate crime. Laws of protection were rushed through aristocratic council as soon as the rebellion and revolts were over and the council drawn. There’s a lower house, now, too, who do most of the law making. Men and women like Percival, favoured by the royal family or the aristocracy. They are nominated by their communities, with the backing of an aristocrat, chosen by the sovereign. The day is peaceful, hot, perfect for iced treats. Arthur is free. Camelot is safe. 


	8. epilogue

The sound of the street as people make their way about their business is at odds with the deepers, gentler hum of the city. It’s higher than the hum of the earth in the countryside, but no less powerful. The thrums and cascades as the magic returns to its unbent, untwisted ways, seeping into everything. The faultline at the small town of Ealdor, a calcification of too much suffering, too many rejections of the gift of the earth, is broken up. There will be no more bursts of power to the fragility of humanity. It will seep, slow and gentle, into the earth and the air and the people. 

 

Albion is a calm land. Revenge and blood and feud canker it, but beneath that, it is peace. The earth doesn’t call for the violence of people. It craves their love, their gentle warmth, their strength and fragility. Once Camelot has untwisted, has settled, the peace wrought there will spread to the rest of the land. The golden light and the deep power that are live at the centre of the country will walk the earth knit together, and turn the ashen, damaged ground to rich, dark, fertile soil. Albion will grow. 

 

Above the land, there wheels a white dragon, dipping with the wind. The magic of the air is different to that of the earth, less bound, less calm. Aithusa rides it, uses it. The sky smiles on her, the daughter of wind. The dark red of the other, the dragon yet to be called, the beauty and depth of that, the sky waits. Air is patient, enduring. When the dark is called, when that story is told, then the sky will have the same peace as the earth. For now, Aithusa is a balm to quiet the storms. The hope of Albion. 

 

_ ~fin~ _


End file.
